I’ve guess I’ve only been talking about this on Twitter and Facebook, but I’ve started going to the gym here at Prov. The membership is only $15 a month, and you can’t beat that! Marc’s been jogging at 7:30 every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and so it looks like my gym mornings will be Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, and whenever I can squeeze other times in. But it’s quietest in the morning, and I’m all about going there when no one is around.
So off I went Tuesday at 7:30am. Yikes! I don’t know the last time I was out of bed before 7:30am, let alone out of the house. But it looks like we’ll be going to bed early and getting up early while we’re out here. And it actually isn’t so bad. Luckily there was one guy in the gym on Tuesday morning, so he showed me how to work the treadmill.
Perhaps this is the time to interject here and explain a few things. I’ve never been athletic. I’ve always been reasonably thin, but never athletic or in shape. I’ve never had any sort of regular exercise routine. The only time I would regularly exercise was when I was pregnant. As soon as I found out I was pregnant and the lightheadedness (I was rarely nauseous, just lightheaded) stopped, I’d get going on my old school Kathy Smith pregnancy aerobics video, along with a little pre-natal pilates.
You know why I would exercise? Because my body was no longer just “mine”. There was someone else I was taking care of when I exercised. So all of a sudden it became important to exercise and take care of myself, because it was doing something for someone else.
Then after the baby was born, my time was spent nursing and taking care of the baby (and siblings) and my body would trim down pretty reasonably, with usually only the last 5-8 pounds to go after the first month. Those pounds would hang around until I stopped nursing about a year later and then they’d magically fall off. Then three to five months after that I’d be pregnant again and would start exercising.
Then I had Olivia. And I lost the weight. But right around the time when she stopped nursing, I was still dealing with some personal stuff and depression, and I’d found great comfort in the form of french fries, gravy and cheese curds (oh, and I do the ungodly thing of adding ketchup to it). Seven letters, 800 delicious calories: poutine. And then we were deciding if we were going to have any more children. So I didn’t get pregnant right away. And I was eating my 800 calories of comfort before bed at least once a week. So I was gaining the weight I would’ve from pregnancy without exercising.
Stupid, stupid Dixie. But in my half-depressed mind it was a waste of time to take care of my body at that point.
And so here I sit, almost two and a half years since Olivia was born, having done almost no exercise since the weeks before she was born. And I’m paying for it.
Like this morning, when I was laying on the mat at the gym trying to do some sit-ups when someone else came in (I’d been alone for a good 20 minutes at that point). I imagined her thinking, “Look at that girl. I think she’s trying to do a sit up, but I don’t think her shoulder blades are even leaving the floor!” At that point I was just trying to channel all of the wisdom Kathy Smith ever shared with me about pressing my belly button to the floor and tightening the things that need to be tightened and making the downward motion as tight as the upward motion. But, let’s face it. After two and a half years, I don’t have a whole lot of stomach muscle.
But I’ve got some time here. Time to take care of myself and put in the effort to find those long, lost stomach muscles, and whatever happened to my ass. So I’m going to be a work in progress for a bit. And hopefully it won’t be long before the muscle at the bottom of my back will feel like it hasn’t been put through a meat grinder. (I never knew I had a muscle there, but I feel it as soon as I’m done exercising.)
So there you go. That’s how it happened. And now I try really hard to get it back.