Category Archives: Exercise

Sporty Sunday

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I don’t know how it happened. I woke up this morning and felt fine. I fed the dog, I brushed my teeth, I hopped back in bed with Lucy and MQD and I started to feel freezing cold.

Thirty minutes later I was hurling. I crawled back in to bed and let Lucy sidle up to the buffet. She went to town and then the last thing I remember was saying “Can you take her?'” to MQD. I had the Sleep of the Dead for another hour and a half.

I woke up a little after ten. I felt like maybe I was going to live after all. I heard no tears from the living room so I ventured out.

This is when things stopped making sense.

“I thought I’d take Em for a hike,” he said. A hike. We don’t hike. We watch Netflix and ride bikes at the park and make pancakes. And sit around. It was a Sunday, right?? A Sunday. The day of Rest.

So, I went and made a cup of coffee. Exactly what you should do when you’ve had a violently upset stomach.

“I’ll go with you. Lemme see if I can eat something.” Something like EGG SALAD. We were in an alternate universe where coffee and egg salad was the new ginger ale and saltines and violent upchucking with a splash (and I do mean a splash) of diarrhea was the perfect precursor to to hiking. Oh. And in this parallel universe we hiked.

In the beginning Emily was pro hiking.

Within the hour we were getting out of the car at the Occoneechee Mountain State Park, a three minute drive from our house. I started to laugh as we headed off in to the woods. “We don’t hike!!” I said.

“We do now,” said MQD. Hiking was win-win at first, Lucy was sleeping in the Ergo. Fish was psyched. Emily was talking non-stop and MQD suggested we do this every weekend.

The MapMyRun app in my phone said we had gone almost two miles when I suggested we turn around. Looking at the map we did not appear to be even kind of close to where we parked.

MQD and I took turns being Emily’s cheerleader. She was a little champ. A four mile stroll was not what we had in mind when we first set off in to the woods. We counted as we walked, establishing that Emily took approximately eight steps to my five. For every five hundred steps I had taken, she had taken eight hundred. This made her feel validated in her extreme exhaustion. And this fact did make me feel slightly less like screaming “Look, I could shit my pants any second AND your sister is going to wake up furious and sweaty any time now, keep walking, dammit!!”

How can you expect me to just keep walking???

Nearly four miles and an hour and a half later we were back at the car. And it was fun. We hiked. We might do it again. We might be a family that hikes. I can not explain the depths to which this is hilarious to me.

Here is a picture from last Sunday. Ya know… before we hiked. When we used to nap.

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New Running Shoes

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New Shoes, Same old body

“Mom, it smells like poop in here.”

“Well, I’m pooping can you close the door?”

“Mom, why do you shave your business? It looks like Dad’s goatee.”

“Can I please have some privacy?”

“Mom, do you have your period again? It seems like you just had it.”

“Can you shut the door???”

It is this lack of privacy, this total dearth of alone time that makes jogging so appealing. I can put Lucy in the stroller, fill up a few water bottles and put on some tunes and go. I’ve not yet figured out how to poop, shower or check a menstrual cup while jogging, but if I do I will get back to you. I’m not alone. But it is quiet. No questions. I’ll take it.

I gained more than fifty pounds while pregnant with Lucy. I was Wedding Thin to start with and likely gained ten or fifteen on our honeymoon so it is not fair to blame it all on Lucy. But I do anyway. I did not have preeclampsia or excessive water retention. I just had a new husband that brought me M&Ms and bowls of ice cream because he loved me.

I made peace with my post-baby body. I put a picture of my stretch marks on the internet for all to see. But even if I can deal with the shape, with the number on the scale, I can’t stomach buying a new wardrobe. I gave myself permission to wear elastic waist bands for a few months. A few months are up. Summer affords me the opportunity to wear the empire waist sundress. And while Memorial Day weekend is only a week behind us, I know from experience that September is around the corner. I will not wear maternity jeans as I play with my nine month old baby.

So, I jog.

It’s peaceful. And quiet. And eventually something should happen to my body. I know the “it took nine months to gain it, it will take nine months to lose it” adage.

My mind wanders. I am the slowest jogger on the planet so the slow and steady pounding of the pavement is almost as great as a nap. Lucy certainly finds it peaceful.

I have jogged intermittently over the last seven years. I trained for the OBX half marathon when Em was teeny, running 12 miles at my farthest before I stepped on a sippy cup and elected not to run it. I was jogging again two years ago when my back started giving me trouble. I drank the chiro kool-aid and things started improving.I bought a pair of Vibrams. I read “Born to Run” and I got to work on correcting my heel strike. It was slow going. For years I had perfected what I thought of as a more efficient way to jog. The longer the stride the fewer times I had to actually move my legs, right? The searing pain I was creating in my hips wasn’t helping me. I watched countless you tube videos on chi running. And then I got pregnant and sat on my couch.

When I started jogging again recently I found that the shorter stride, the midfoot strike, the forward leaning body position, it was all so much easier than before. What was different? The extra thirty pounds I was carrying can’t take all the credit for this new and improved running form.

It was during Sergio Mendes’ “Yes, Yes, Y’all” that I had an a-ha moment last week. It was 89 degrees outside and I was jogging at Em’s soccer practice. Week Seven, Day Two of Couch to 5K was telling me to run for 20 minutes without stopping. It would be the first uninterrupted twenty minutes I had jogged in more than a year. MQD volunteered to hang out with Lucy so I could give it a go without the stroller.

A few minutes in to my jog I felt my old familiar heel strike form returning. “Yes, yes, y’all, freak y’all, freak y’all, to the beats y’all, and you don’t stop and you don’t quit” Sergio says and I fell in to a slower groove thinking, damn without the stroller I don’t have any water, I better slow down a little. WITHOUT THE STROLLER!!!

“You’ve got big dreams? You want fame? Well, fame costs. And right here is where you start paying in sweat.”

Hours of Chi Running videos and Danny Dreyer never suggested you just get a stroller!! It was the stroller that had fixed my heel strike. I have to let my feet fall under my body. I naturally lean slightly forward when I jog with a stroller.

I’ll be damned. This kid might be to blame for the extra thirty pounds. But she just might be the key to curing my shitty running form, too. And if all goes as planned my fat ass will be long gone someday and my new, pain free running will be here to stay.

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Not a bad place to jog, if you’re gonna jog…

(For the record, I love the Five Fingers, but the heat was making my normally marginally sweaty feet insanely sweaty. I opted for the New Balance Minimus. They have a Vibram soul. Heh. So far, so good. About twenty five miles in them so far and I like ’em.)

Ballerina

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Ballet flats and a ballerina bun do not evidently a ballerina’s physique make.

Eh. Neither do peanut m&ms apparently. Baby steps.

Just Do It

Part of the struggle of motherhood is the lack of control. So much of what I do is reactive not proactive.  When you are reactive you are always behind the gun. Never caught up.   Time and again realizing you have missed a step, requiring you to double back and repeat a step.

 A proactive approach to anything makes me feel like I am on top of things. The trouble with being proactive is that it is hard. But I have recently established that I can do impossibly hard things. 

Yesterday I did three proactive things. For me. For my health. Not for my children, although they certainly benefit from my good health.  And today, one day later, I am already feeling better than I did yesterday as a result.


I slept. I got up and said goodbye to Em and MQD and back to bed I went. For just a minute, I thought. I’ll snuggle with Lucy,  get her back  to sleep. Those few minutes became
two hours of blissful sleep. Sleeping harder than I have in months.  Recently my lack of sleep has begun to …. show in my attitude.  Enough so that when I asked MQD what I can get done for him the other day he said he’d make me a list.  That’s it pictured on the left.  Message received, dear.  And accomplished.

When I woke it was nearly 9:30.  Thus began the second impossibly hard thing. I excel at creating exercise plans for myself, I do not always succeed with the follow through, much like many of us.  There is almost always a good reason.  Lately I have had a nasty cold and the windy and intermittently cold weather was not helping matters.  So I decided to take it a little easier than I had planned.  But when I looked at my phone and it read 9:30 I knew I had to leave at 9:35 to make the 10:00 exercise class I had planned to attend.

With the extra oomph my nap provided I peeled myself out of bed and jumped in to some exercise duds and was out the door.  Lucy had been tanking up at the drive through breakfast bar all morning so she was nice and sleepy.  I think we were 45 minutes in to getting our sweat on before she knew what hit her.  Second impossibly hard thing, done.  I had the good old “never wake a sleeping baby” rule on my side had I decided to stay in the sack with my kiddo.  And the list of things to do provided by my husband.  And, still, up and out the door I went.
Thing number three is not so fun.  At my initial prenatal visit to the midwife  I got some less than pleasant news.
More than 50% of sexually active adults in America carry the human papilloma  virus (HPV) at some point in their lives.  1 out of 4 women with HPV have one of the strains that can lead to cervical cancer.  But now that more and more women are educated and getting an annual pap smear only 1 out of 1000 of those cases will develop in to cervical cancer.

Mid June of last year I had been married for less than two months.  I had been pregnant for  nearly the same amount of time.  I was anxious to have my first prenatal visit, hear a heartbeat, so I could relax.  As I have said so many times before I get nervous when everything goes my way, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.  And in my 35 years I had never felt so on top of the world, so it would be a long fall from there.  The call from the midwive’s office was not a suprise.  Something had to give. “Your pap smear came back abnormal, ASCUS.  We won’t do anything now, but the positive HPV test means we will want to get a closer look after your pregnancy.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought my appointment yesterday afternoon would be the day that the bottom fell out.  (There is an awful joke in there somewhere, I mean if the nine pound plus baby didn’t make the bottom fall out a high powered microscope, a speculum and a light sure wasn’t gonna do it.) I have been dreading this appointment.

Standard procedure following an abnormal pap smear with high risk HPV is a colposcopy.  Essentially a doctor takes a good look with a microscope and a light at your cervix and determines whether or not a biopsy is required.  Vinegar is applied to the cervix, causing the “color to come out” in any abnormal cervical cells.  This amuses me, as vinegar is also used to get brighter Easter eggs.  This procedure is subjective to some degree.  And this was worrying me.  Even after a doctor said “I don’t see anything to worry about” I’d be left wondering, but what did you see?  Exactly.
And yesterday afternoon, because UNC is a teaching hospital, I had the pleasure of seeing something most women never do.  There, on a television screen so the doctors could discuss what they were seeing was my cervix.  “Look, Lucy, does that look familiar, there’s your home, baby girl!  Your door in to the world, where you made your big debut!” It was like taking Julie Andrews to the London Hippodrome and saying “This.  Here. You first felt the spotlight here, this is where it all began.”

Not everyone gets to bring a pal to a gynecological exam.




Everything both doctors could see, I could see, too.  And there was nothing to see, nothing abnormal.  I will spare you the description, but it was truly amazing to see how quickly the human body puts itself all back together again.  I’d certainly not have guessed my big baby had peeked out that hole only weeks before.
I was nervous.  And now I am not.  “I don’t think we will need to do a biopsy at all.  Seems your pap smear may have just detected an abnormality triggered by your pregnancy.  So, make sure you get a pap smear in a year and take care of that baby.  You can put your pants on and let yourself out.”
In a different context  that last sentence could break a woman’s heart but it was music to my ears.

Three things.  Sleep.  Exercise.  And medical follow up.  Just do it.  You’ll be glad you did.

Nuts and Bolts

I hesitated to devote an entire post to my plans to get my ass in shape… only because “getting fit” is such a cliche goal of the post-partum woman. And it goes against everything I have previously said about loving myself as I am, accepting my “tiger stripes” and so on.

But it’s really not all about the outside. Although that is a delicious benefit of getting your ass up and moving. It’s just as much about the way my head works.

The overwhelming sense of awe I had for my body after Lucy was born stayed with me for weeks. And I can feel it fading. And I want it back. I can do impossibly difficult things. Or at least things that it turns out are not so impossible at all.

I am sitting at the precipice of a new Life.

Life is made up of the smaller moments, the moments in between. There is where you find the Joy, the Beauty. The nuts and bolts of Living, the thing that holds it all together, it is Habit. It is Routine.

I started thinking. I have an opportunity to develop a new routine, new habits that add up to this new Life that are for me. I have a chance to let the Life I build through Habits and Routine be one that is made up of who I am and what I see as important.

These years will not be made of fancy vacations and nights out. The months of planning for our Wedding and our Baby are behind us. There will be no new homes, new schools to distract us from the day to day. This is the nuts and bolts.

The next “impossibly difficult” thing I plan to do? I am going to make myself a priority.

For many years I have said two things.

The first – I hope I have a chance to be home with my kids when they are small. Here I am. At home with my kids for today. I will do everything I can to figure out a way to stay here. To support MQD in providing for us.

The second – I hope I’m in the best shape of my life by my 40th birthday. That’s four years away. Not one crash diet and a half marathon training program away. Not three times a week Zumba class and a low carb lifestyle. But four years from now.

Four years in which I hope to rebuild my Life. Make new habits, new routines. The irony is not escaping me. That this decision to stay home and take care of my family may actually afford me the time to take care of myself.

I may or may not be “at home” for the next four years. But I am damn sure gonna try to find away to be more present. And in the meantime, I daresay, I will write a fair amount about how to do this…. to take care of me. And my family. Make new Habits. New Routines.

So far I have a small plan. Thirty minutes of exercise. Every single day. More water. Less coffee. Breakfast for dinner once a week. Keep writing. Make the bed. Every day ask Em and MQD if there is anything I can do for them. Run the vacuum before dinner. That’s all I’ve got so far.

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Two and half miles today. I was sweaty. She was hungry. Until she passed out. It was a good day.

Wellness

Everyone tells a new mother “Make sure to take time for you!” and  “Take care of yourself, you can’t take care of your family if you are not taking care of you.” And unlike so much of what “everyone” tells you, it’s not bullshit.  So this go round, I am doing the very best I can to do just that.

Yesterday was a damn near perfect day.  I had my second post-partum trip to the chiropractor.  One more and I am cleared for  take off.  It is hard to believe it was only a year ago I drank the Kool-Aid but I am convinced that my chiropractic care is somewhat to credit for my bouncing back so quickly after this labor and delivery.

In the same building, I had the pleasure of participating in my very first activity that starts with the words “Mommy &.”  And believe it or not, after I got past the initial “I can’t fucking believe I am doing this” feeling it was wonderful.

Mommy & Me Yoga.  Check that off the bucket list.  I had this idea that somehow it would be guided rolling around the floor with my youngin’ which I had trouble wrapping my mind around.  Around the why you’d need someone to show you how to do that and how I was going to get through it without peeing in my pants (not from lack of Kegel exercises during and post pregnancy, but from hysterics.)

Turns out Mommy & Me Yoga is regular yoga where your baby can loll around on a blanket (hopefully sleeping) and if they should wake you can pop out a boob in child’s pose or do the Mommy sway in the back of a room and no one will give you the glare.  The glare that says “really, a baby?  A baby?  How dare you bring  a BABY here!?”

There is one more thing a new mother needs to do.  “Get out of your house!” the well meaning advice givers say.  This is easier said than done for some, but I don’t have any trouble getting out.  I was, after all, at work seven days after Lucy was born. But I was out of the house twice this week, socially.  Much harder for me.  I had lunch with an old friend one day this week.  Not a huge accomplishment for some, but slightly more cause for celebration because I initiated this meet up.  And the second time?  With a new friend.

It makes me nervous to say that.  A new friend.  You may recall that I sought acupuncture treatment towards the very end of my pregnancy.  I have since been back twice.  Because I really like the practitioner.  She’s neat.  And cool. In that “I wonder if I am cool enough to kick it with this girl” way.  Can women that have TWO kids even “kick it” at all?

I did the hard thing.  The hard thing that frequently eludes me.  That I had dared myself to do in November in this upcoming year.  I stuck my neck out and tried to make a friend.  Making friends is awkward under normal circumstances, but when you have bullshitted with a gal  a handful of times and at the end you hand them your Visa card it is especially daunting to say “So, I was thinking maybe we could hang out, and maybe I’d not pay you.  Whatcha think?”   But I did it.  And it paid off.

I had the last of my pre-paid sessions yesterday.  And I am certain I will see her when she gets back from her trip to Austin.  Because she likes me, too, guys.  Even though I have TWO kids and am rapidly heading towards having NO job.    And get this.  She has ZERO kids.  Like maybe we could talk about something besides breeding.  Or breastfeeding or how much sleep we got.  There is a place for all that.  A huge place.  I did just finish mentioning that I secretly LOVED Mommy & Me Yoga afterall… but music and tattoos and books and funny stories from your twenties, this is some good shit that deserves some attention, too.

Quite a few of my friends, friends that have known me since Emily was little and before,  have recently sent me an email or a text message along a common theme.  “How are you doing? Really?” And to each of them I have said the same thing, “I’m good, I think.  I feel really good.”

I am typing this in my “running” clothes.  Clothes that will really be walking with a VERY tiny bit of jogging clothes until I have had one  more visit with the chiropractor and am closer to six weeks postpartum.  It isn’t noteworthy that I am writing and wearing pants with a forgiving waist band.  But these clothes are already sweaty.  (Tell me that is not gross? I  wear exercise clothes more than once unless I wear them to a Bikram Yoga class.  I don’t really care if I already smell if I am heading out the door to sweat.)

Day one of a 5K training program was completed day before yesterday.  And I am headed out the door to do day two as soon as I hit Publish.

So, to answer the question, how am I doing, really?  Awesome.  Really, really good.  I am taking care of myself.  And I drank a Heineken while I cleaned out the fridge after Em told me she did not have a boyfriend.  Yet.  I got this.  It’s gonna be cool.

Marital Relations in Three Easy Steps

Jeans come in a lot of varieties.  Unfortunately for me the only pairs of mine that fit in a manner that will allow for me to both stand up and sit down were first trimester maternity jeans.  Their elastic waist band and relative stretchiness are fantastic for the gal that is not interested in wearing them ten days in a row.  By mid afternoon I can’t keep them up and nothing says “these pants don’t really fit me” like constantly tugging at them.  I can forget all about the second day.  And by day three? They are like clown pants by then.

So, I was left with two options.  Squeeze in to my pre-pregnancy “fat jeans” (the jeans I wear right before I get my period, to events that require heavy eating or when I am planning on napping in my clothes) or buy a new pair in a larger size than I care to admit.

I chose option two.  I’d rather wear large, unattractive jeans than feel like a sausage.    The dreaded Mom jean, capable of making your perfectly round ass look completely flat or  the “boyfriend jean” a fancy way to say completely unflattering on everyone that is not 85 pounds or has any hips whatsofuckingever were on sale the day that I decided I’d take the plunge.  I was not, I repeat, not paying full price for jeans I only planned on wearing for a short time.

The Mom Jeans won.  I thought I’d be fine.  So what if they made my ass look like the broad side of a truck?  Stacy London has informed me that  Lee Riders will be instantly slimming, and that it will be “easy to look and feel my best.”  And they’re cheap.  Less than twenty bucks cheap.

Four days.  My Lee Riders and their slimming tummy control.  We made it for four days before I decided that when you have no abs whatsoever and you wear a nursing bra or  a shelf bra tank top that smashes your girls in to pancakes, albeit gigantic pancakes that give you armpit boob and cleavage all at once it is not wise to wear jeans that come up to said armpits and completely disguise your ass.  My ass is is the only place that twenty extra pounds comes in handy.  What was I thinking?  I needed ass-friendly cheap jeans.  STAT.

Old Navy coupon – you and me.  It was on.  It took six pairs of jeans.  One friend.  One dressing room.  Zero cocktails or tears.  And The Diva Skinny Jeans and I have made friends.  I intend to wear them every day for at least the next month.  And at thirty bucks that is still only a dollar a day.

And when you have two more weeks before you get, ahem, back in the saddle (post partum six week check up and a brand new IUD on February 28th, hollaaa!   Leap year will be memorable this year!) it is important to start early.  Prepping yourself mentally.  For the Big Event known as “resuming marital relations.”

Here’s my guide.  Three easy steps.

Step 1.  Get a pair of jeans that make you feel like a girl.  A regular, good looking, “might some day retire the ginormous full coverage cotton panties in favor of the fancy grown up lady knickers” girl.

Step 2.  Start trying to be less critical.  See yourself as others see you.  Not as your slightly Body Dysmorphic Disorder-ish self views you.  Step 2 is easy if you have a little loverboy living across the street.  This weekend Em’s buddy, Kellan, breezed through the living room and stopped dead in his tracks.  “HOW DID YOU GET SO SKINNY SO FAST??”  and he hugged me.  He said I was cute.  He’s six.  But I don’t care. I told MQD if he ever comes home to a Dear John letter explaining that I need to feel beautiful, go find Kellan.  I’ll be with him.

*source unknown

Step 3.  Make peace with the “tiger stripes.”   Last week MQD sent me this image.  He had seen it on a clever how to be a good dad blog.  I’ve since seen it in several places around the internetz.  It would be a hell of a lot easier to make friends with my “tiger stripes” if I had abs of ummm… not even steel.  What is a slightly less strong metal?  Abs of brass?  Shit, I’d settle for abs of cottage cheese if I could just have a visible waist.  I digress.

Step 3 ain’t easy.  But then neither is pimpin’.  And neither is just getting the fuck over yourself I have discovered.  But it seems the most direct path towards acceptance for me is to spill it. The truth.  My big deep, dark secrets spilled out in front of everyone.  A couple of weeks ago I posted a picture of my post-partum self.  I received a lot of kind comments and emails.  But it still sucked.
And it still sucks today.  But I am making progress.  Because if I have to be totally honest with myself I am more inclined to want to photoshop out the toothpaste on my bathroom mirror than the armpit boob or the stretch marks.  Now I can’t guarantee that is forward progress.  But it has to count for something.

 

Day 82: Meditation

Day 82: Sit in the lotus position for 30 minutes.
Sure.  Just as soon as I have thirty minutes. I actually did take thirty extra minutes after Bikram the other night to sit.  And just be.  It’s easier to carve out thirty minutes of time when you have already earmarked ninety.

This morning I knew I had to go to the chiropractor, remind Mike to get keys cut, sign up Emily for kindergarten after school care and then go to work.  But when I looked at my phone on the way in to the chiropractor’s office and my gmail calendar was not showing up, I flipped.  I tend to schedule things, put it on the calendar and I don’t have to feel the stress of both completing a task and remembering it.  But this week I actually have things on there like “find suitcases.”  “Charge camera battery.”  Not in lists… but on my calendar.  At certain times.  I am starting to feel the Bridal Mania and I have been choosing to sedate it with a steady diet of Budweiser and scheduling.  Both seem to set me at ease.  So, not being able to see my calendar this morning had me panicked.  I can’t exactly kick back beers at work, so I need my calendar.  If nothing pops up and tells me to do something, I’m cool.  I’m not forgetting things.

To that end I decided I needed another thirty minutes of sitting.  I rarely take a “lunch break.”  But I have promised myself I’d get in the office early and stay a bit late if need be this week, so taking thirty minutes for me seemed necessary.  And it is 80-something out today.  And not raining.   

It wasn’t on my calendar.  But I sat on the floor for thirty minutes and did my damnedest NOT to think about anything.

And then I took a quick walk outside.  Spring has sprung.  I hear Springtime is a nice time to get married.  And turn 35.  And make babies.  I am feeling pretty confident in my ability to get two of the three accomplished in the next couple of weeks.  For now, the third task is not on my calendar.  Fingers crossed that it won’t ever need to be. 


Day 73: Get a hobby

Day 73: Get a hobby. Wikipedia defines a hobby as “an activity or interest that is undertaken for pleasure or relaxation, typically done during one’s leisure time.”  Until this past year I really didn’t have any leisure time to speak of, so it is no w0nder that I didn’t really have any hobbies.  But now that I do, thanks to the help of MQD I am sometimes gripped by the need to “do something” that is just for me but I don’t really have the desire or the cash flow to back it up.  But I think I have found it.

My intermittent obsession with fitness is another post all to itself, but I think I have stumbled in to a new obsession that might actually, if I can figure out a way to swing it without having to sell my ass on a street corner, become a hobby.  I bought a ten class pass (which sounds like a super good album name) to a Bikram Yoga studio recently.  I enjoy yoga, and try to catch a class at the gym I belong to as often as I can. But I don’t feel that same sense of fuckyeahikickedmyownass like I do after a good run after a yoga class. But Bikram?  I feel like a badass when I leave.  And it’s not just the 105 degree room.  It’s the focus for ninety minutes on something.    And admittedly, the fact that I am drenched with sweat doesn’t hurt. The class tends to fill up prior to the start so it requires I get that there about twenty minutes early to get a spot.  So, that ninety minute class quickly becomes two hours.  Two hours, 120 minutes (great MTV show, sigh) of time for me.  I sweat, and I smile and I sweat and I breathe.  And I don’t think.

And I feel like this when I leave…

Shout out to Burke Lake park, what! what!

So, how’s the cleanse going?

How is Day 2 of the 21 Day Purification?   I an considering resurrecting this look.  In second grade I represented the Meat food group in the talent show.  This particular food group has remained near and dear to my heart.  I am not hungry.  I just miss my old pal, Meat, something awful.

Sadly… I look more like this today.

Sigh. So, how’s the cleanse going?    I am feeling very spring of 1982.  And unfortunately I am trapped in  Halloween 1981.