On Monday I made homemade pasta. On Tuesday I did nothing. By Wednesday my entire body was in shambles.

Let me start by saying that I have not put on gym clothes and worked out since October. And no, it isn’t because I’m THAT lazy (which I only recently learned.) So to say that I am out of shape would be an understatement. I feel the need to say this because what I’m about to tell you… isn’t pretty.

I honestly can’t decide if the days feel longer now that I’m doing absolutely nothing all day long, or whether they felt longer when I was working and going into the office. It’s a real toss up. Anyway!! With the seemingly unlimited free time I have right now, I decided the only logical thing to do was to make homemade pasta for dinner. After three days of putting it off, I decided that Monday was the day. I found my recipe, disinfected the entire countertop, took out my tools/ ingredients, and got to work. Made my well of flour on the counter. Cracked in the eggs. Stopped to take a picture (^^ even the eggs are laughing at me^^) because if you made pasta and didn’t take a picture of the eggs in the well, did you even do it? Mixed together. Formed my dough. And that was just the beginning of how I wound up here. Broken and sore 4 days later.

Hot take: kneading pasta dough is the new OrangeTheory.

By the time my dough was even somewhat workable, I was flushed. By the time it was satin-y and smooth and ready for its resting time, so was I. However, that was one pound of dough and I had three left to make. Using muscles I didn’t even know existed, I kneaded for what felt like hours to get the craggy mass of flour-y flakes to form into something I could deem “round enough.” All I could think about while I was doing this were the little Italian grandmothers that can basically make pasta in their sleep, with, I’m sure, less effort than I. By the last pound of dough I pretty much swore to myself I was never making pasta again. For health reasons.

Thankfully, once all was said and done, the pasta was delicious. After all my complaining and sweating and whines for help (ty mom and dad, and mom and dad ONLY!!) it actually ended up being worth it. We had a lovely dinner (tablecloth and everything!) with good wine, good music and nice conversation. For a fleeting moment, I wondered why we ever eat boxed pasta (came back to reality right after.) And I can tell you I felt absolutely no guilt about having a second bowl of pasta.

But today is Thursday and the entire right side of my body and my left leg are sore like I’ve done a full body right side workout. Wondering why my leg is sore? I was too, until I remembered that I was leading with my left leg so I could knead with my entire body. The fingers on my right hand are numb, and I can still feel the point where my right thumb was pushing into my left hand with every rotation of the dough. My ribs hurt. My stomach muscles hurt. My arms hurt. My heart hurts from knowing that I feel this way from four pounds of fettuccine. I wish I was kidding, but this is my very sad and very honest truth.

In retrospect, sweating for 120 minutes is much more enjoyable when there’s a bowl of pasta at the end. And truth be told, I can’t compare the feeling of pasta-soreness to any of the numerous times I’ve tried BBG. Did my jaw drop in horror when two days later mom asked if I would make the lasagna noodles for our Easter dinner? Yes. Can I use levels of post-pasta-making soreness as a benchmark for what kind of shape I’m in? Probably, although that would require me to get back on the horse and try it again. Is a pasta six-pack a thing? Can we make it one? Because I can guarantee you that making pasta is the most delicious workout you’ve ever had.