Tag Archives: work

It’s not a Dirty Secret.


It was an innocent question. “Do you post about it?”

“Eh, not really. I can’t become one of those facebooking stay at home moms that posts about the gym constantly.”

He went on to explain that he thinks it is motivating to people to see people taking care of themselves. He’s right. Intellectually, I know that he is right. And he knows where of he speaks. My friend Tony lost a gazillion pounds in the last few years going to Yoga. He looks just like the handsome devil he was at 20. He is so damn inspiring he was on Good Morning, America. The guy knows what inspiring looks like.

“I agree. I just think that my stay at home mom-ness makes some people have the “Of course she works out – what else is she doing?” reaction, yanno?”

It was the first time I had admitted that there is a certain level of shame that goes along with striving to be fit when I don’t have a “real job.” Somehow making time for myself when I worked 50+ hours a week was more admirable to me.

I let this all roll around in my head for a few days. And then I decided, fuck it. I work about 22 hours a day. That is 154 hours a week. And I find the time. Six days a week I say to someone, even if it just Lucy “Nope, I can’t do that. I am going to the gym.” And I go. Sometimes the only thing that drags me there is the knowledge that I can take a shower. Sometimes I go so that I can get out of my own head for a few minutes. Sometimes I go because I am so damn close to the Wedding Weight (the number on the scale when we got married, at the peak of the Wedding Diet. It shouldn’t matter. I know this. But man, alive, it feels good. My body doesn’t resemble the Wedding Day body. My boobs are still cartoonishly large due to nursing. My stomach is still weirdly stretchy. But the scale, the dreaded scale, is resembling a me that said “Hot damn, take my picture all day and make me your wife!”)

But more often than not I go because I am obsessed. Not with being fit in a general sense. Or dieting. Or zipping up my skinny jeans. Or how I will look in a bathing suit this summer. But because I have a new hobby.

Sprint Triathlons. On April 28th I will be one week shy of 37-years-old and I will be competing in my very first sprint triathlon. Swim 250 yards. Bike ten miles. Run two miles. And I can not wait. I am over the moon excited. I lie in bed and I wonder if I can get my socks on faster if I roll them up kinda like a donut. I go back and forth between putting on a baseball hat under my bike helmet or not. As absurd as the tri-suit bathing suits are they must have a purpose and I scour the Internet for one that is universally flattering and only marginally overpriced.

I am coming out of hiding! I am proudly telling you and the whole damn world that I am “one of those women.” I am one of those women that is showing her kids that it is important to take time to care for yourself. It is important to work for things that you believe in. It is okay to take pride in feeling strong. And it is even okay to be one of those women that hangs around in the lobby drinking a cup of coffee after Spin class like “she doesn’t have anything better to do.” Because my bathrooms will get cleaned. My groceries will get purchased. My laundry will get put away and some more board books will be read. And I just might do it all with a smile on my face because I had a ten minute conversation with an adult that was not about poop or Hello Kitty.

Ladies at the gym in your fancy workout clothes – I am sorry my 26 year old self sneered at you. I did not undertand why you had on a matchy matchy gym ensemble instead of a decade old fraternity t-shirt. I didn’t understand that gym clothes might be the only “getting dressed” you did all day and that it was important to feel put together. I am sorry that I thought it was lame that you were not in any kind of hurry to leave the gym. I am sorry that I thought taking your time meant you didn’t have anything “better to do.” I don’t really have an excuse. I was still lighting a cigarette as soon as I pulled out of the gym parking lot. Can we just agree that there were a lot of things I did not have figured out and forgive me?


So, now that I spilled the beans you can expect to hear more.  Because when I get in to something I get really in to it.  I’ll be racing for a cause, Best for Babes.  You can expect to hear a lot more about that. No more time to gab.  I have a hot date with a treadmill.


It is a common refrain “It happens so fast! It’s amazing how much you forget!” Kids grow so quickly. They move from one stage to the next almost seamlessly and you somehow forget completely what was happening only last week.

I thought this rule about completely forgetting the details of portions of your life was specific to raising children. Somehow the lack of sleep combined with the excitement of reaching the next milestone contributes to the forgetting, I assumed.

Yesterday I went in to my office, to my old job. What do you call it when you have an office in a building but you don’t really go there anymore but you might again someday and no one has exactly replaced you because things are slow? In any case, Lucy and I headed in to the office around 8:15. As soon as I got to the end of the street I noticed something weird.

There were a lot of cars. A lot of cars. On the road heading to work were lots and lots of people. We live in a pretty rural area. I get out of our neighborhood several times a day utilizing the rolling stop and look both ways method. But this? All this… traffic… I didn’t know what to make of it at first.

“Damn. There’s a lot of cars all over the place, Goose.”

Somehow I had forgotten all about this morning “rush hour,” such as it is.

I continued on my way to work. Perhaps you recall my commute to work. I drive from my semi-rural neighborhood right smack dab in to the middle of nowhere. It’s not unusual to see a cow. A chicken. A horse. I slow down when I see a dog near the road. Even though I know they are likely not lost it is a habit.

I slowed down when I saw the first dog. A bigger black lab-ish looking dog. As I neared the dog he took on the tell-tale dog pooping posture and I giggled. Because I have the intellect of a twelve year old boy.

A hundred yards later I saw another dog. A smaller tan dog. I had barely recovered from the hilarity of seeing a dog poop when Blammo!! Another dog pooping. I had tears in my eyes by now.

I did not recall my drive to work being so hilarious.

I was almost to my office. I saw the third dog from a great distance. A husky sort of mixed breed. He circled a mailbox as dogs are apt to do.

And then (I am not sure I can resist the temptation to write “I shit you not”) he assumed the position.

Three. Three dogs pooping. It was crazy.  And an awful lot of cars. That’s what I saw on my way to work on Friday. I was not prepared for this.  I forgot a lot about what it’s like to drive to work in the last six months.

For the first time in a long time my post has no related picture. You’re welcome.

(Sidenote: I told MQD this amazing tale over coffee this morning. He was not sufficiently impressed. When he failed to recognize the overwhelming amusement in this turn of events I declared I was leaving our breakfast date to share this fine story with the interwebz.  So he is to blame for my wasting the last three to five  minutes of your life.)