It’s time to get serious about what I eat (mostly junk) and what I do (mostly sit). For the last week I’ve made a concerted effort to reclaim my treadmill time now that I live in a beautiful apartment with the ‘perfect’ spot for it. The hulking beast (HB for short) has been liberated from the garage and is now wedged between my large dining room windows (yay!) and hideous garage-sale-reject table (boo!). I’m also proud of the food choices I’m making now–oatmeal, yes. steak burrito, no–because they’re realistic. On weekends, I will still be eating a delicious burger and washing it down with a fantastic beer. I won’t exercise every day. I know these things because I have done this dance, lived this life, before. I was in great shape, very content with my life, and I owned my choices.
When I got pregnant with Andrew, I was the thinnest I can remember being. I was paying Charles the Ambiguously Gay Kickboxing Instructor to kick my tail three times a week, and I was all South Beach all the time (lettuce is just like bread! Except, totally not!) and things were going my way.
Then somehow I decided growing a human gave me the right to grow another ass and proceeded to eat my weight in corn dogs. I gained 70 lbs while pregnant.
To be fair, A was 10 of those (9 lbs 15 oz? Really, nurse, you can’t fudge that a little?)but so were my three chins. I lost most of it through attrition and the breaking of the corn dog habit, but seeing as he’s two years old I can’t exactly call the last ten pounds baby weight any more.
Yes, it has become apparent that they will not magically fall off on their own, so here we go. Back to the treadmill, back to the healthy habits. I resolved today, while simultaneously loving and loathing HB, that I will not begrudge myself this last ten frame. These are happy pounds. They’re take A to the park instead of working out pounds. They’re beers with friends and celebratory bottles of wine (shared, don’t judge) and great discussions over creamy pasta dishes pounds. I own this weight. I don’t, however, own a scale and I never will. I only weigh myself at my parents house, so roughly once every two weeks. I can imagine that this might make following my journey, as it were, a little less…quantifiable, but hey, there’s the door.
Should you be answering the call of the treadmill as well, here’s a great song to motivate you. I actually started running when I didn’t have to during today’s workout because of this song. Please don’t let the live performance aspect throw you off. If this song can make ME run, I assure you that it will make you want to pick up the pace, too.