"What if there is no tomorrow? There wasn't one today."

Because my life is taking after the movie Groundhog Day, except in my case it’d be Groundhog Year, I find myself once again unsuccessfully trying to lose weight from a pregnancy where I did not get to bring the kid home. Which sucks ass. I do have a boost in the fact that the weight did eventually come off last year; I just can’t remember how long it took. This time I’ve been walking/hiking/running 3.5 miles a day 6 days a week for a month and have lost 1 pound. Wtf mate. I’ve significantly cut back on crappy food intake as well, but have increased vodka consumption so I call that a draw. I’m not getting hung up on the numbers, I don’t really care how much I weigh so long as I’m less jiggly and my cute pants fit, neither of which have been accomplished. I did run my first straight mile in 10 minutes on Little M’s 2 month birthday, after doing the preset work out that had me go 2.5 miles, so I’m pretty proud of myself for that. I know 32 seems a little old for that but what can I say? I truly hated PE. But I’m still lacking in the motivational department, I think, honestly it’s not so much just exercise but more to do with this kind of ‘what’s the point’ feeling that has settled over me just in general. Not with G or J, but with attempting to do anything different in life than what I’m doing right now. I do realize there is a point, I should always strive to better myself, and be a person I’m proud of in more ways than just G’s mom, and J’s wife, it’s just I realize it in a mental capacity, and not a do shit about it capacity. So. I’m reposting my motivational post I did Feb 23 of last year, with some editing because dear god it was all one paragraph making it look like the longest run on sentence in history. Hopefully it does the trick.


In my opinion, with the exception of childbirth, I'm at my least attractive while exercising. (Although, if you think about it, childbirth is the ultimate exercise. I was however, basing my opinion on the whole vagina exploding thing.) (Side note, I'd make out with whoever came up with the epidural, I was all for trying natural childbirth until you know, I tried it. The first time I couldn't even inhale because it hurt so badly I knew I was gettin me some drugs.)

I never really worked out or anything until I started dancing ballet at 20. I don't know if you've ever seen a ballet studio, but oh my god, fucking mirrors everywhere. I learned pretty quickly not to look at myself. I don't get a nice blush to my cheeks. My entire face, chest, upper arms and inexplicably my muffin top turns bright red. I sweat, to the point where I never wore long sleeved leotards, just say no to armpit rings. *shudder* I pant, my nose runs, and I become a loud mouth breather. Which is probably one of the biggest reasons I hated performing, I had to do this with a shit TON of makeup and an uncomfortable outfit on?!! That's what people want to see! But it's interesting our abilities of self preservation. Of course I had to look in the mirror, in ballet you are constantly trying to improve your technique, style, flexibility, everything! And your teacher is always pointing out what you need to do differently or better. So I learned to concentrate on that 1 part. My leg, knee, arms, fingers, feet, they become body parts instead of a whole person. I would catch a glimpse, at times, of the awkward way things bounced while jumping, but would instead choose to concentrate on my height in the jump, or my landing and movement to the next piece of the dance.

Yoga was similar, you look to try and improve the position you are attempting, but I managed not to 'see' the whole picture. These activities equally took my brain and body to accomplish though. I was utterly occupied from the inside out, concentrating all of my physical and mental energies at once. Well, not during the meditating time of yoga. I was so bad at that. Everyone else looked all serene and in the moment and I'm mentally making my grocery list.

Now I don't do either of those activities though. I live in the boondocks, making it very hard to take class elsewhere due to the traveling time, I'm a mother, and quite honestly we're poor. Not that I'm a big fan of the gym anyway, 'let's look like complete shit in front of everyone, and not have anything for my mind to do but think about that!' So no. I tried running on my driveway. Our driveway is 1/2 mile long, and about 2/3 of it is at a grade that is no longer allowed by the county. It's fucking steep. But 1/3 of it is flattish, so I ran that. But my ankles swelled like balloons. Apparently my body does not appreciate running on asphalt. Fine. I ran next to the driveway, but it wasn't smoothed and meant for the ankle twisting of jogging so I had to stop. I tried just walking up and down the steep part, but I was SO. BORED. Also, the next door 'neighbor' (50 acres between you is still a neighbor right?)came by to tell us a bear had eaten all of his chickens. This made my nightly walks to the highway a much discussed event, and no one was convinced of my safety even though I promised to sing loudly while I did it. I thought that was ample enough protection, I'm a horrible singer; the bears would run right away. They disagreed. But there was no other time I could do it, the driveway is too steep for me to take the stroller down, I'd tried and my knee attempted to run away on its own, and I can't just ditch the kid by herself for an hour! So I had to stop. By that time it was freezing ass cold and getting dark at like 4 anyway, so I didn't put up much of a fight.

I tried videos, but I want to punch the instructors in the face, I know I'm not doing the moves to the best of my abilities because I just don't care. So I didn't exercise anymore.

But.

Then we got a treadmill!!! The urge to dry hump this thing is wicked hard to fight. I've used it every day since we got it. We set it up in our bedroom facing a wall with a painting on it as there was really no other place to put it space wise. So I get up on this thing and realize I'm staring at a wall for the duration of my work out. Huh. Running is nowhere near as mentally stimulating as ballet or yoga. So I daydream. Sometimes about other things completely, but sometimes I'm one of those Olympic sprinters, with no discernible body fat, running faster than my old dodge could go up a hill. I picture the muscles flexing with every time my foot pounds down on the treadmill, my arms pumping, my music turned up so I don't have to listen to myself panting, or the kid pounding on my bedroom door because her father is addicted to words with friends. (Damn his i.Phone!) I think of how they have to show the race in slow motion because it would be over too fast for anyone to be able to absorb what had occurred, and I Am That Fast. I Am That Fit. I Am a Gazelle Leaping Through the Tundra. I Am Dead Fucking Sexy.

Or not. Because I only have 30 minutes to work out, the only place I've lost weight is my boobs, and I see myself in the mirror when I get off this treadmill, I'm a whole different color then when I stepped on, and it's not an attractive change. But it's a nice thought. Maybe I'll try to angle the mirror so I can see the tv instead.