For three and a half years my husband has had to answer the following question: I think I'm losing weight, do I look skinnier than yesterday? It wasn't fair to ask him because although, I did in fact lose a lot of weight at one point (working crazy double shifts and living off of coffee, cigarettes, and broccoli) I never actively sought out exercise in an effort to shed unwanted girth. I was and am a huge fan of doing nothing and especially not running and had taken the atkins diet to extremes by refusing my hunger a proper meal.
I used to announce to myself and occasionally, foolishly outloud, my intentions of exercising: join a gym, do situps, go to yoga, etc. And then I would go once or twice over the next month, zero times the following month, way, way too busy to spend time exercising, what are you crazy? by the third month. Inevitably, 6 months later I would give myself a guilt trip trying to imagine what my new in-shape body would have looked like and the vicious cycle would regain momentum. I am my own worst enemy.
Not anymore! Ha! Take that flabby, post-partum, streched-all-to-hell stomach. Who the fuck knew it was so easy to do situps? I sure as hell didn't. (I learned the hard way while living in mexico that situps and I do not get along. I went to an aerobics class where I died in the first class as a result of the warm-up consisting of 150 situps. I know! What kind of freakin' warmup kills you and makes you vow to never, NEVER, do situps again?) I started doing them in June; I was all, OMG, I don't do shit all day, the least I could do are 10 situps. Pish, 10. Such a small amount, takes 45 seconds. The next week it became, pish, 25. 25 takes 1 whole minute out of my day. I can handle 1. Freaking. Minute. I mean, jeez. I can spend 5 minutes eating baked goods, surely I can spend 1 tiny minute exercising. And so, a momentum was begat. A momentum that is on fire now, people. On. Fire. It now takes me about 4 minutes to do situps but that because I do 100. heehee. I'll tell you a little secret about all this. Come closer so I can whisper it in your ear. I feel fucking AWESOME. I no longer have to hold my stomach in, it holds itself. If my shirt reveals a bit of love handle, who cares? Not me, I hardly have any.
Theoretically, I should be doing this for me, right? Self-esteem, yada-yada, important to self image, etc. I get all that. It feels good to feel good about my body, but it is the best present ever (EVAH!) to hear my husband comment on the rising quotient of sexy goin' on at Casa 5penny. So screw you self; the husband's use of sexy in conjunction with my post-partum belly is way more motivating than you are!
I'd like to introduce you all to Finn, the belly alien.
