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Soreness fills my soul as we settle back into our normal routines. This soreness has nothing to do with ill feelings toward people who may have slighted me of late, although there was that one gift from that one person that made me wonder about the "thought" behind it.

Sore -- the feeling -- hasn't reared its ugly head in my emotional repertoire, despite the occasional questionable gift, since the mid-1970s. However, sore -- the pain -- has gripped my arms, legs, torso and neck with a vengeance.

It would be simple to dismiss the pain as part of growing older. My kids are on the brink of leaving the nest -- we hope -- and I did just have yet another birthday. When the smoke alarm sounds causing friends and relatives to speed up the birthday song and then your kids help you blow out the candles, you are indeed getting up in years.

Age can be blamed for my eyes losing their ability to focus quickly. My face slowly transforming into a topographic map of the Great Smokey Mountains can be attributed to the number of candles on my last cake. But the passage of years cannot be blamed for my muscle tenderness.

Over the past year, I will admit that I put exercise on the back burner. My yoga mat gathered dust in the back corner of the dark closet. My exercise machine ended up in storage during our house renovation. For eight months, my exercise routines were sidetracked by construction and other family obligations.

Although it wasn't a New Year's resolution, I did dig out the yoga mat recently. The exercise machine has also been moved back into the house and I've actually used it a time or two. And while it makes sense that increasing intentional exercise would bring on aches and pains, I can assure you that is not the case.

I am not the type to jump into exercise like a child running toward the ocean while stripping down to his bathing suit and jumping in the cold, early summer surf. My approach toward introducing exercise back into my routine compares more accurately to a grandmother sticking her toe into the pool to gauge the temperature, and then spending the next two hours stepping into the pool for a refreshing dip.

The reason I'm walking a bit is directly related to virtual sports. Over the holidays, our household acquired a new video game system. It is the system that requires active participation from players.

To bowl with my family, I must stand and lunge as if I'm tossing an actual bowling ball down an alley. To play tennis, I must swing my arms this way and that as if the controller is a racquet. For nine holes of golf with Hubby, I must stand, feet together and hands wrapped around the controller as if it is a club and then rear back and swing through.

Within the first two days, I achieved professional status as a virtual bowler. The next morning, I could barely swing my legs out of bed. All that lunging in front of the television took its toll. But I couldn't stop. My children challenged my professional status, vowing not to stop until they, too, earned the rank of virtual professional.

One would think, as with most gadgets and toys, the novelty would wear off within the first few days. Yet, here it is nearly a month later and not a day goes by without the family crowding into the living room, pushing aside the furniture and firing up the wireless controllers.

Hubby comes home from work and decompresses with a round of golf. Sometimes, I take a break from the computer and join him. After supper, we no longer sit in front of the television. We now squeeze in twenty or thirty frames of bowling before the primetime line-up begins. If primetime television is filled with re-runs or shows that don't pique our interest, we might play a couple of rounds of darts or race a few laps around the speedway.

Hubby and I look forward to having couples over for dinner and virtual sporting events. The boys have been entertaining their friends more, as well. But the best feature of our interactive gaming system is the increase in family interactions.

We see our teens an average of five more hours a day than we did before we hooked up the new system. Friday homemade pizza night has become Friday homemade pizza and virtual bowling night, which means no one disappears into their room after devouring supper. The kids actually hang out for a while, basking in the glory of defeating their mom once again on the virtual lanes.

The soreness will eventually subside. The family bonding will last a lifetime. And eventually, with enough virtual gaming hours under my belt, I will be in top virtual-shape, able to win back the title of top bowler in the family.

Micki Bare is a columnist for the Arkansas News Bureau and the Courier-Tribune in Asheboro, N.C., and author of the book, "Relative Expressions." She lives in Asheboro with her husband and three children. Her e-mail address is mickibare@inspiredscribe.com.