If you follow me on Facebook, you know that I’ve recently taken up boxing. My goal: not to die.

See, as a writer, I do live a very sedentary life. Butt in chair, hands on keyboard, as the saying goes. Also, I’m kind of a slug. There. I said it. I’ve tried many forms of exercise and hate them all. Swimming…well, I don’t like to be wet, so that’s that. Running: yeah, no. Tried that. Plus, I don’t like to be cold, so I “can’t” do it for at least six months of the year. Yoga: I get the giggles. Everyone’s so serious and meditational and all. Martial arts: Okay, I loved that stuff. But my children won’t let me take at their school. In fact, they got a teensy bit hysterical when I raised the subject. “No! Mommy, seriously! You can’t. You’ll embarrass us. We’ll quit if you join.”

They have a point. I still don’t reliably know my left from my right. Standing on one foot has proved an elusive life skill thus far. And then there’s the imagination factor, in which I become Jackie Chan and start with the sound effects.

And so, boxing. Not a class. Just me and Kyle, aka Cute Boxing Trainer (or Evil Boxing Trainer, depending on my mood). I don’t want to have to witness other people doing much better than I am, so the one-on-one route seemed like the most dignified way to go.

Now granted, I wasn’t planning on taking up boxing. I was just there for research, as my current hero went to college on a boxing scholarship, and watching Rocky wasn’t quite enough research for me. So I went in, hoping just to get some terminology down, but Cute Boxing Trainer was so cute that I found myself handing over my credit card and committing to six weeks of lessons.

Oh. My. God.

I’m not sure how many forty-something female slug clients Kyle has, but he clearly doesn’t know with whom he is dealing. Our conversations go something like this:

Me, gasping, close to death: “I’m drenched in sweat.”

Kyle: “So?”

Me: “So that hasn’t happened since I birthed my babies. I have to throw up now.”

Kyle: “Do it. I’ll be waiting right here.”

Me: “I’m starting to hate you, despite your cuteness.”

Kyle: “Then I guess I’m doing my job.”

(As you can see, he’s quite cruel.)

I’ve suggested various things that might motivate me: Kyle calling me “Mecushla,” like Clint called Hillary in Million Dollar Baby; the theme from Rocky playing on a continuous loop during my lesson; huge posters of Russell Crowe as James J. Braddock at strategic points around the gym; Tom Hardy as my sparring partner. So far, nada. Just more sit-ups.

Underneath my pleasant padding, I’m quite sure I have washboard abs.

So despite the fact that TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE has nothing at all to do with boxing, how about a giveaway? Beautiful new cover, hitting the shelves on 12/18, just in time for Christmas, I might add! Leave a comment, and I’ll pick two of you to get a signed copy, how’s that?