It's also been a day of introspection, as stretchy-pants-and-Motrin days tend to be.
We'd like to have another baby. But babies don't come to us easily, which means that I spend about half of my life wondering if I am pregnant and the other half split between bemoaning the fact that I'm not pregnant and trying to get pregnant.
Which leaves little time for physical fitness, don't you agree? I don't want to start a fitness program if I am pregnant (which I never am, BTW. Well, I was once.) I'm not in the mood to start a fitness program in the week that I'm confirmed un-pregnant, and there are more important things on the agenda in the week that I'm trying to become pregnant. And so it goes.
But something's got to give.
This morning as I was "checking my stuff," I read a blog post from my cousin's wife, Roxanne, who is inspirational in countless ways. Seriously. You should meet her. On her blog she announced she was preparing for two marathons this summer and asked if anyone would like to join her. I commented that I have dreams of being a marathon runner, but I am so far from being able to do it. She came to my blog and left a comment (because she's nice like that) that she was sure I could be ready for a 5k in time, and that if I was serious, she would help me get there.
So I'm taking her up on it. In fact, I immediately went looking for my running shoes.
Not in the coat closet. Not in my bedroom closet. This is a bad sign. Has it really been that long?
I search the garage which is full of boxes we haven't yet unpacked from our move. There's one running shoe. I'm gonna need two. The search continues. I find my bathroom scale. Do I dare? I dare. It's bad news.
I find a pair of shoes that will do. I pack my son on my hip and with a "Curious George" DVD in hand, we head downstairs.
I plug in the treadmill, awakening it from a very long coma. It works! I try to adjust the incline. And now the treadmill doesn't work anymore. I cuss at it. (Not a real swear word. Those aren't allowed. Just something that would make Dave ask me "What are you cussing about?" To which I would respond, "I'm not cussing! Why the heck do you always have to ask me that?!")
So I give up on the treadmill and give the elliptical a reason to exist for 10 minutes. So I did something at least. Something that will get me just a little bit closer to being the hottie that I'm supposed to be.
I have a 10-year high school reunion coming up. I don't want to be fat for that. Dave doesn't understand why I care. He doesn't understand why I would want to go to my reunion in the first place (we had very different high school experiences), and he especially doesn't understand why I would care about impressing anybody.
But here's the thing. I don't care about impressing anyone. The huge popularity of this blog (check out my 9 followers!) and my smokin' hot husband are all I need to impress anyone.
It's just that... I'd rather not know that everyone's first thought at seeing me is "She's gained weight." I'd like to spare my own feelings from knowing that shame a couple hundred times in one night. Am I too self conscious? Maybe. Do I care too much what other people think? Definitely.
So no more banana cookies for breakfast. And when I'm finally lookin' fly, I'm going to try to be a JCPenney model.