Lazy? Table for one?
Since giving birth to the Papoose, I’ve had moments of sheer energy and total motivation where I was certainly on a direct course to a toned gluteus maximus and fabulous upper arms. Those moments came upon me quickly and consumed my life. I was motivated by walking briskly for a few months. The results from walking didn’t appear in the form of bulging calves and toned abs, as I had envisioned. Instead it was more of an overall healthy feeling and a chance to breathe the sweet fresh air of the emerging spring weather. My enthusiasm was prematurely idled by the big black bear and her fuzzy wittle cubs. I made several attempts to walk again, despite my fear of becoming bear nibbles, but turns out I’m a big fat chicken. The bear made several more appearances during the summer, but I enjoyed her natural beauty from my living room window.
A month later, I regained my motivation with the help of pilates, a purple rubber stretchy band and a cute pair of yoga pants. Perhaps I was a smidge over confident when I made my debut as a pilates kitten with Ana Cabàn’s intermediate level work-out. I contorted my body into awkward poses and I curled up like a hot salty pretzel and rolled back and forth while grabbing my ankles. I wheezed like a buffalo trying to poop out a watermelon. My entire body trembled and quaked as I struggled to use the stomach muscles that had been sliced in two a year prior. Sometimes I’d catch my Husband’s eyes wandering from his laptop toward me and my peculiar calisthenics. I knew he was secretly trying to decide if I looked sexy or just plain gross. I stuck with it for about a month. The results came quickly, and I started getting muscle-y bumps in formerly jello-y places, but damn if that wasn’t a lot of work. And to make matters more challenging, I usually had a toddling baby grabbing my purple rubber stretchy band or sitting on my head. Quite simply, pilates required more daily effort than I was willing to put forth.
As a result of this extended breastfeeding thing, I continue to burn a nice chunk of calories without really straining myself. Unless, of course, you consider reaching to the top shelf for the package of pringles straining. I had a sweaty and puffy pregnancy. Of all the disappointing things that happened during the course of those nine months, I suppose I regret my sordid love affair with freihofer’s super softee donuts the most. It wasn’t until I gained the recommended 25-30 pounds by week 15 that I realized I might have gotten myself into a predicament of plump proportions. I expanded quicker than that blue haze of smoke that rose above my head at the Sublime concert in ’94. Before long, all of me started looking like a super softee donut. For better or for worse, I plowed through the gestation of my beautiful boy human while hauling a 60 pound surplus of an ass.
Eight pounds to go. I need to revive that elusive motivation with some kind of exercise that involves eating gooey pastries, watching old Cary Grant movies and gossiping on the phone. No she did not say that! Girl, hold on, I got a call coming in.
Or I could just settle for wrangling a toddler and traipsing up and down stairs with loaded laundry baskets? Heck, I can rationalize anything.
A month later, I regained my motivation with the help of pilates, a purple rubber stretchy band and a cute pair of yoga pants. Perhaps I was a smidge over confident when I made my debut as a pilates kitten with Ana Cabàn’s intermediate level work-out. I contorted my body into awkward poses and I curled up like a hot salty pretzel and rolled back and forth while grabbing my ankles. I wheezed like a buffalo trying to poop out a watermelon. My entire body trembled and quaked as I struggled to use the stomach muscles that had been sliced in two a year prior. Sometimes I’d catch my Husband’s eyes wandering from his laptop toward me and my peculiar calisthenics. I knew he was secretly trying to decide if I looked sexy or just plain gross. I stuck with it for about a month. The results came quickly, and I started getting muscle-y bumps in formerly jello-y places, but damn if that wasn’t a lot of work. And to make matters more challenging, I usually had a toddling baby grabbing my purple rubber stretchy band or sitting on my head. Quite simply, pilates required more daily effort than I was willing to put forth.
As a result of this extended breastfeeding thing, I continue to burn a nice chunk of calories without really straining myself. Unless, of course, you consider reaching to the top shelf for the package of pringles straining. I had a sweaty and puffy pregnancy. Of all the disappointing things that happened during the course of those nine months, I suppose I regret my sordid love affair with freihofer’s super softee donuts the most. It wasn’t until I gained the recommended 25-30 pounds by week 15 that I realized I might have gotten myself into a predicament of plump proportions. I expanded quicker than that blue haze of smoke that rose above my head at the Sublime concert in ’94. Before long, all of me started looking like a super softee donut. For better or for worse, I plowed through the gestation of my beautiful boy human while hauling a 60 pound surplus of an ass.
Eight pounds to go. I need to revive that elusive motivation with some kind of exercise that involves eating gooey pastries, watching old Cary Grant movies and gossiping on the phone. No she did not say that! Girl, hold on, I got a call coming in.
Or I could just settle for wrangling a toddler and traipsing up and down stairs with loaded laundry baskets? Heck, I can rationalize anything.
posted by Renée at 7:43 PM
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