Today's post brought to you by the delightfully dark, hilarious writer of the blog "There Once Was a Girl" Wendy started running, and should be an inspiration to 40 year old moms everywhere. She even does crunches on balls. And she makes her cat work out on the treadmill.
I’m new to this whole fitness thing. Six months before my 40th birthday, my body decided it was time to fail me and one day I woke up lumpy. I finally got boobs, but I also got thighs, a belly, and I those flappy skin parts under my upper arms when I raise my hands. The ultimate horror was buying a mom swimsuit that provides modest coverage. ‘Modest coverage’ is code for ‘too round for an adorable bikini,’ but they don’t put that on the tags. I decided I have to get in shape.
I started by turning the $800 coat rack into a treadmill. Crazy, I know. I started walking and it was deceptively easy. If I can walk, then I should be able to run, right? Yes, I can run. I can also lick my armpits, but that doesn’t mean I will. I hate running. I have a series of words mostly starting with ‘f’ that I say each time I slam my foot on the treadmill. It doesn’t make running easier, but it makes me feel better. Try it – “eff this, eff that.” Repeat. I’m trying to eventually run a 5k with my kid that actually likes running. I’m pretty sure he’s not mine. He’s only 13, so I need to find him a fake ID, because I’ve decided that the Beer Run in June is for me. Beer after every mile? Probably the best idea ever.
Running alone won’t get rid of the belly, so I do crunches and other bad things. I bought an exercise ball, because I was told they’re great for ab work. I flopped myself on my back across the ball and did a couple of test crunches and I didn’t roll off. Yay! Someone invented an easy way to do crunches! I crunched and crunched and crunched.
Unused muscles started screaming an hour later. I wasn’t going to let that ball get the best of me, so I did it again the next day. At the time I was watching Netflix Instant with a kid, so I couldn’t bring out the “eff this, eff that.” I’d have cried, but it would have hurt my tender ripped abs too much. I thought about crying instead. Natural childbirth might not have been as painful as trying to lift the upper half of my body. Exercise balls should come with percocet or vicodin or tequila.
Through trial and error and excruciating pain, I’m figuring out a way to make this exercise stuff work. While on the ball, I plot its hideous death. Today it might be gutted with a fork, and tomorrow I could hold it over a flame or snip it with rusty nail clippers soaked in lemon juice and salt. As for the treadmill, I have a chubby cat that will do anything for a treat. He’s learning to take over my treadmill duties. I hope he works hard so I’ll be ready for the Beer Run. I’ll need that beer to conquer weight lifting.