The title says it all.
Squidgelet is a year old. According to all the manuals, all the chub you have left on you when your baby hits a year is YOUR fat, not baby fat.
I mean, there are some good things about being fat.
I never get cold any more.
When I go see a movie, I don’t have to worry about the seat cushion being too hard – I’ve brought my own squishy seat cushion with me.
When I’m out for a walk I don’t have to worry about anybody whistling at me like they used to.
I float great in water. Between that and the never getting cold, I imagine I could be a pretty serious competitor at long-distance cold water swimming.
I do know I’d kick some serious heiny at a game of “Who Can Survive the Longest Without Food on a Desert Island”. Anyone want to play with me? Winner gets to eat all the losers! Anyone? You there, in the back— is that a hand? No?
At any rate, it was time to do something about it.
I dragged the boys with me down to my local 24 Hour Fitness and got ready to pay the $8 for childcare that it normally costs to work out. I used to get up before work to work out, but I’ve been pushing so hard in all the other areas of my life, I just feel like I need to get a full night’s sleep. Living with RA is kind of like living with a really grumpy bear – when it’s in “hibernating” you’ve got to judge just how much “noise” you can make going about with your daily life. If you make too much “noise” (stress, exhaustion, stress, over-exertion, stress), the bear comes roaring hungrily out of its cave, and heaven help any helpless little joint that gets in its way. My “bear” has been tossing and turning restlessly lately, so I’m doing what I can to soothe it back to sleep. That means that working out before work just isn’t in the cards at the moment.
Unfortunately, at $8 a pop for childcare, working out more than 1 or 2 times a week isn’t in the financial cards, either.
Imagine my surprise when I went to sign in and found out that the gym was having a special – Holy Crap. $10 per kid, PER MONTH, and I could work out as often as I wanted?
I could feel my thighs getting toned, just listening to it.
Thrilled beyond belief, I reached into my purse to grab my wallet…
Only to discover I’d left it at home.
So I dragged both kids back to the car, loaded them up, and drove home.
“Gym? GYM? GYM?!” wailed the DragonMonkey, upset at the sudden change of plans. “Play wif da twuck at da gym? PLEASE? GYMGYMGYM?!”
I unloaded them out of the car, searched the house, found my wallet, loaded them back in the car, and drove back to the gym.
“GYM? We awr going to da gym? GYM? PWEASE? GYMGYMGYM?!”
I pulled into the parking lot, unloaded both boys out of the car, and headed into the gym.
Life used to be so much simpler back in the days when I hopping in and out of a car wasn’t a 10 minute ordeal.
After checking them in and a fruitless attempt at soothing the Squidgelet’s tears, I managed to sneak out and into the busy gym.
I changed and briefly stretched, then hopped onto an elliptical machine. Sure, I was sandwiched in between a 17 year old toned goddess and a young Brad Pitt, both of whom were wearing beautiful, expensive workout outfits. Yes, I was wearing wrinkly pajama bottoms and my husband’s old t-shirt, but who cared? It was just a matter of time. With the new workout special, I could afford to work out seven days a week, if I wanted to. Why, in just a few month’s time, that would be me on the elliptical, flaunting my toned body in a too-tight lycra uniform. Just knowing I had this freedom was giving me a spring in my step.
I increased the resistance and incline of the machine, legs pumping in time with the bass of the music piped in over the speakers. Boo-yah. Less than two minutes into my 30 minute set, and I could already feel my muscles warming up. This was going to be great. Feel the burn, feel the burn, feel the…
“Becky Bean, please report to Kid’s Club. Becky Bean, please report to Kid’s Club.”
With a start, I shut off the machine, grabbed the ratty kitchen towel that I was using as my workout towel, and opened the door to childcare room.
The smell of vomit assaulted me immediately.
“He, uh, he got sick…” the childcare worker trailed off, swallowing a gag as she attempted to do damage control. The Squid was howling, purple-faced, his entire outfit, the bouncy, and carpet all dripping with throw-up. It looked absolutely impossible for there to be that much throw-up, and yet… there it was.
“Here, don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up.” I grabbed The Squid and lifted him to me, doing my best to ignore the feeling of his puke-drenched clothes soaking into mine.
Ten minutes and 3,000 paper towels later, I dragged both kids out to the car again.
“GYM? No, I wanna pway at da gym! No, mama! No, no wanna go! GYM? GYM?! GYM?! GYM!?”
That was last Monday. It has now been nine days of coughing, sleepless nights, and puking from the flu. I have not been back to the gym yet.
Dear Flu Bug:
Please go away and quit picking on my two children. They were both skinny to begin with. They really didn’t need days of puking. I’m starting to feel like I’m carting around little Auschwitz babies. If you wanted to pick on someone, why not pick on me? I wouldn’t minded having a little bit of the flu. It might have been good for at least five pounds.