Per my records, here's how I spent the morning of my recent birthday (after sleeping off the insanely great Van Halen concert from the night before, that is):

• 1,004 jumps
• 40 triceps push-downs
• 25 low rows
• 35 crossbars
• 75 bicycle kicks

Translation: I went to the gym, hopped around like a lunatic, moved onto the arm machines, and then hit the floor for some old-school gut busters.

Granted, it sounds like a totally lame way to celebrate. And it completely was. But for me it also represented a new level of self-discipline. I was attacking my back-of-arm flab in an orderly fashion, just as I'd vowed to do after my sister's vacation snapshots sent me into a jealous rage. But the real coup was the fact that I'd been dutifully tracking my workout routines in a little notebook I keep stashed in my gym bag.

Though I feel like an übergeek while doing so, I now never exercise without writing it down. I've kept a fitness log off and on for years, but I think my newfound stick-to-itiveness is a direct by-product of my postbaby kangaroo pouch. Because it refuses to exit stage left, I'm using every trick in the book, including a few I've previously gotten all fired up about and then abandoned.

It sounds so "duh," but that little log serves a few important purposes. For starters, it's basically functioning as my memory—ever since I delivered my diapered darling, my short-term recall has gone AWOL. Kind of like Guy Pearce in Memento, minus the washboard abs.

It's also a source of great happiness, as in, "See? I really am trying to send these pounds packing—look at all the gym time I've been logging!"

But while I'm loath to admit it, that fitness log doesn't mean jack if I'm not also keeping track of what I'm shoveling in ma bouche. Talk to any trainer, and he'll tell you that controlling your food intake is, by far, the most important piece of the weight-loss equation. If you're just mindlessly noshing away, you could weld yourself to that treadmill and never lose a friggin' ounce.

Here's an example of what I'm talking about: In the space of time it took for me to write these last few sentences, I've consumed a handful of almonds (good) paired with four Hershey's Kisses (not good). If I knew I had to write all that down, I might have thought twice about the Hershey's Kisses segment of the program.

To make the task at least a little more pleasant, I'm upgrading from my cheapie notebook to a special journal given to me by NutriFit founder Jackie Keller. (You can order one, too, at her website, in conjunction with her Personal Eating Plan manual.) The booklet divides each day into three meals and two snacks and also includes sections for jotting down water consumption, exercise, and your feelings about, say, the size of your thighs.

So I'm diving into my new food and fitness journal, hopeful that I'll be just as diligent about recording my Kisses as I am my crunches. An even better scenario: I'm so shamed by seeing my mindless snacking writ large, I stop doing it altogether.