There are a few reasons I've decided to try for my old "before Ella" body.
1. Looking at photos from our recent trip to the beach made me cringe. The tankini that I wore the 2nd day of our trip (because it would be a little more forgiving on my aging body) was anything but forgiving. Wet material does nothing more than cling to my muffin top and fanny pack of fat left over from having a baby. That stupid thing won't go away even though I've lost my baby weight.
2. Losing the baby weight does not mean I have my old body. Flappy thighs, jiggly belly and a saggy rear are new accessories to my frame. I don't even like to accessorize. I noticed these awesome additions in my reflection at the beach while in walking around in my bikini. Not a good look.
3. I need to find a way to feel more like the old me. Having a baby has certainly made me different and that's not a bad thing, but I do miss being my old athletic self. I've been athletic in some form or fashion all my life. Now, I get a cramp walking to the mailbox.
Adam returned from his run, sweaty and tired, but feeling good about what he'd accomplished and proceeded to make a tomato sandwich for lunch. This was far from my original plans for the day. Trying to get inspired and motivated, I put on my running "gear" and came down to the kitchen where Adam and Ella were having lunch. I had my iPod on and was blasting music for about 30 minutes trying to get pumped up and have the courage to face the heat. I was much more interested in dancing in the kitchen and making Ella laugh than heading outside, but I did it anyway. With a belly full of strawberry torte and half a diet coke, I went outside.
With an ear full of music you'd hear at any club on a Saturday night in Myrtle Beach, I started my fast, warm-up walk. It was hot, but not unbearable. Yet. I walked a lot further than I planned. It was like my feet knew the second they picked up speed, I'd want to hurl. Feeling confident, finally, I started my jog. My feet found the beat to the song and I was off. I felt better than I anticipated. This was good. I was in better shape than I thought I was. This was cake. 500 feet into my victorious jog, I hit the holicrap wall. I mustered the strength to jog past a few more mailboxes and then started back to walking. Did it just get hotter out here? If I had to guess, I'd say it was easily 100˚F out. I should have brought water. What seemed to be 10 miles (more like .5) later, I started my jog down hill again.
At this point, I was pretty sure it was now 350˚F out. I know because I've put my hand in the oven to retrieve baked spaghetti and it was about this hot. My skin was sizzling. My shoulders were now turning a shade of pink. Normally I would be excited about this. I was getting a little "workout" tan, but the shades of pale green on my face was distracting from my new sun-kissed glow. I needed to puke. I didn't make it down the hill. I had to return to a walk. I needed to stop, but if I did, I'd be out here longer. Why did I do this? Jogging is overrated. I'm too old. I'll be happy in my flab, right? This was taking forever. I decided that walking slow in the shady parts of the road and then sprint walking to the next shaded area would be my intervals. I needed to puke. I thought I could just walk it off, but you can't walk off puke. I'd say I jogged a solid 7% of the time, walked with a purpose 45% of the time and spent the last 48% searching for shade and trying to keep the hurl from greeting my esophagus. These aren't good numbers, people.
When I finally got home, it was all I could do to make it to the fridge for my water bottle. I didn't puke so it was a victory. When I caught my breath and regained focus in my eyes, I made a cucumber sandwich with a little side of chicken. I was feeling good about what I just accomplished. I was doing what was best for my body.
For dinner, I had a fat, juicy hamburger, fries and a fountain diet coke.
Adam returned from his run, sweaty and tired, but feeling good about what he'd accomplished and proceeded to make a tomato sandwich for lunch. This was far from my original plans for the day. Trying to get inspired and motivated, I put on my running "gear" and came down to the kitchen where Adam and Ella were having lunch. I had my iPod on and was blasting music for about 30 minutes trying to get pumped up and have the courage to face the heat. I was much more interested in dancing in the kitchen and making Ella laugh than heading outside, but I did it anyway. With a belly full of strawberry torte and half a diet coke, I went outside.
With an ear full of music you'd hear at any club on a Saturday night in Myrtle Beach, I started my fast, warm-up walk. It was hot, but not unbearable. Yet. I walked a lot further than I planned. It was like my feet knew the second they picked up speed, I'd want to hurl. Feeling confident, finally, I started my jog. My feet found the beat to the song and I was off. I felt better than I anticipated. This was good. I was in better shape than I thought I was. This was cake. 500 feet into my victorious jog, I hit the holicrap wall. I mustered the strength to jog past a few more mailboxes and then started back to walking. Did it just get hotter out here? If I had to guess, I'd say it was easily 100˚F out. I should have brought water. What seemed to be 10 miles (more like .5) later, I started my jog down hill again.
At this point, I was pretty sure it was now 350˚F out. I know because I've put my hand in the oven to retrieve baked spaghetti and it was about this hot. My skin was sizzling. My shoulders were now turning a shade of pink. Normally I would be excited about this. I was getting a little "workout" tan, but the shades of pale green on my face was distracting from my new sun-kissed glow. I needed to puke. I didn't make it down the hill. I had to return to a walk. I needed to stop, but if I did, I'd be out here longer. Why did I do this? Jogging is overrated. I'm too old. I'll be happy in my flab, right? This was taking forever. I decided that walking slow in the shady parts of the road and then sprint walking to the next shaded area would be my intervals. I needed to puke. I thought I could just walk it off, but you can't walk off puke. I'd say I jogged a solid 7% of the time, walked with a purpose 45% of the time and spent the last 48% searching for shade and trying to keep the hurl from greeting my esophagus. These aren't good numbers, people.
When I finally got home, it was all I could do to make it to the fridge for my water bottle. I didn't puke so it was a victory. When I caught my breath and regained focus in my eyes, I made a cucumber sandwich with a little side of chicken. I was feeling good about what I just accomplished. I was doing what was best for my body.
For dinner, I had a fat, juicy hamburger, fries and a fountain diet coke.
1 comment:
Good for you! Definitely needed to read this as normally I love to run, go to the gym, eat healthy...but lately, I don't know what's gotten into me. I've got to get more self discipline. And the dinner...too funny!
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