I almost wrote this post several months ago, and I’m glad I didn’t because I feel like now, I actually have some authority on the subject. At roughly six months pregnant, I was still running and could even muster up the effort to lift weights at the gym. Presently at 7-1/2 months, I don’t do anything but swim. I am certainly capable of picking up some free weights and waving them around above my head, but I’m gradually feeling every ounce of giving a shit about muscle tone and definition fading away.
I can’t really say whether I vowed to continue a decent workout routine out of vanity, concern for my and the baby’s well-being, or whether it was simply a force of habit (probably all of the above), but I’m happy to say I’ve wrestled loose those demons and I’m now perfectly content sitting on my ass and listening to the delicate sound of it getting bigger. (Sounds like gurgling.)
How does any of this give me the authority to write a blog post about exercising while pregnant, you ask? Shut up. That’s how. But I have been doing some things that I like to pretend get the blood pumping and the cardios cardio…ing. Yes, I probably could have just typed out the statement “every menial task counts as exercise now,” and been done with it, but that wouldn’t be funny, and it wouldn’t take up nearly enough space to make a blog post. So you’ll read this swill and you’ll like it.
- Vacuuming. Especially using the attachments. I happen to have a pretty dope vacuum cleaner, because dope vacuum cleaners are how 30-somethings who have no fashion sense spend their money. But it still a bitch to push a vacuum across the floor.
- Grocery shopping. I hated shopping even before I was knocked up, but now it’s a full-on hot fucking catastrophe. And if I forget something, even if it’s just one aisle over, I am sure as shit not going back.
- Baby shopping. Have you ever been inside one of those big box baby stores? They’re HUGE. And something else: they’re a big fat waste of time if you’re looking for anything that doesn’t revolve around a specific theme. You can’t just buy a regular lamp. It’s gotta be a froggy lamp or a bunny lamp or a birdy lamp. And nothing coordinates with anything else in the store, so it’s impossible to mix and match. God forbid I not want everything laid out for me so I can just blindly pick an entire line for the baby’s room, right down to the teeny tiny pillows and the crib bumper you’re not even supposed to use. I JUST WANT A FUCKING GREEN LAMP FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. But I digress.
- Any flight of stairs. Remember in “Don’t Tell Mom The Babysitter’s Dead” (10:45 mark) when Kenny runs like, halfway up the stairs and then stops, out of breath? Yeah, that’s me.
- Disembarking myself from the body pillow at 3:00 in the morning to go take a pee. Repeating 3x.
- Standing in line at the post office.
- Standing, period. After a wedding last weekend, we were treated to a cocktail reception before being shown into the banquet hall for dinner. Ordinarily, I would have welcomed the opportunity to stand in front of an open bar for 45 minutes, but in this case all I wanted was a chair.
- Staying awake at work.
If you need me, I’ll be over here celebrating all my mediocre victories.