I’ve been trying to write a blog post for more than a week now. I sit down, type out a sentence or two, and am either interrupted by baby stuff or by baby-induced writer’s block. I feel like so little -yet so much- has been going on in my life, I don’t know where to start. Because why the fuck would you want me to reiterate -again- how grossly unfit I am for motherhood, or how grossly out of shape I am or how running still make me feel gross?
Then I read a post by my internet bestie, e-pen pal, nyan comrade and would-be lover Angry Runner, titled So Where The Fuck Have You Been and I realized what I had to do: sit the fuck down and say what’s on my mind and not worry about whether or not I am coming off as clever or prolific or whether I even have a point.
So, in no particular order, here are some things.
I’ve been drinking a lot of beer. My dear friend, fellow cat enthusiast and beer runner Shelby sent me a baby care package that included some hip and decidedly not paaaank baby digs and also (and this is more important) some beers from her current-soon-to-be-former home state, North Carolina. Aaaand they’re all gone. Already. And I only shared one of them. Because actually? It’s a lot easier to drink a beer with a baby in your arms than it is to eat a sandwich. And as they say, there’s a sandwich in every glass anyhow, so I’m probably breaking even.
Another casualty of motherhood: my sophisticated pallet. I like everything now! These beers might all have sucked ass, I’d never know it. They all tasted like heaven to me. (I guess the true test would be for me to drink a Bud Light Lime, but I can live without a control group for this experiment.)
Workouts, like I said, have been gross. I’ve been doing two mile run/walks and starting to dabble in strength work. The other day I tried to do Level 1 of Jillian’s Yoga Meltdown and I quit after 15 minutes. I can’t do a decent sun salutation anymore. I can’t do a fucking pushup. I can run a mile…at an 11:00 pace. Watch out, Special Olympics! And please also consider this portion of the post my official “FUCK YOU” to all the new moms out there who are all like, “I’m surprised how easy it was to get back into shape after the baby!” and, “I’m already running 30 miles a week!” and “I gave birth five minutes ago and ran home from the hospital!” Kiss my ass. Eat my shorts. Blow me. Die.
Here’s a recap of the “runs” that got logged. (Assume the ones that didn’t get logged are even worse.)
Jan 19: 1.73 @ 15:32
Jan 22: 1.72 @ 12:24
Jan 25: 2.33 @ 13:19
Jan 27: 2.24 @ 13:25
Jan 29: 2.11 @ 14:53
Feb 3: 1.11 @ 11:11 (SERIOUSLY)
And for comparison’s sake, the last “run” I logged BEFORE the baby was born was on Nov 12: 2.45 @ 17:44. Yay, progress?
Another big “FUCK YOU” goes out to all the new moms who are already back to their pre-baby weight. Suck it. Eat my ass. Fuck your mother. Burn. I’m back in the same awkward limbo of my first trimester: regular clothes are too tight, maternity clothes are too big. And I am NOT buying a larger size anything. I can wear yoga pants around the house and wherever the hell else I decide to go because I am a worthless waste of an unemployed human being), but all my comfy and stylish running clothes are uncomfy and unsightly now that I’m sporting a front butt. And I’m sick of improvising with big t-shirts and cotton pants that get soggy and smell like swamp ass after 45 seconds of exercising.
In case that last paragraph was not illustrative enough, I still hate the way my belly looks. I’m not looking for reassurance or sympathy, so please don’t tell me to give it some time or for the love of vodka, any shit about inner beauty. I never had that great a belly to begin with, but at least I could wear my running clothes without looking like I was hiding Paula Deen’s balled-up fist under there.
The silver lining to all of this fuckery is that I can wear the same sweatshirt every single day of my life and no one’s going to call me into HR for violating the dress code or (and this is more important), the code of common human decency. Now’s where you can finally seethe with envy, folks.