There’s no denying that I’m an Undercover Fat Chick. I like food, I like liquor and I like to sit on my butt. Then the Teen entered high school and back to school night brought any thoughts of laziness to a screeching halt. Looking at other mothers, I was shocked to see that I was joining the ranks of mothers who let themselves go. Mothers who have accepted that this is their fate and that eff it, I’m here, aren’t I? Apparently Belly dancing, Yoga, Pilates, and what ever else the latest workout craze of the moment passed over the moms of Upper Darby.
Standing outside waiting for the Mister, I became aware of the glares and snarky looks. Turns out that the combination of my sundress and Newport made it look like I was an irresponsible mom to be. That and the obvious discomfort I had climbing the stairs to meet with her Algebra teacher, I made a vow to get my act together.
This is supposed to be the point where I changed my eating, and kept a strict diet regiment and have now morphed into a MILF. Alas, that has not happened. If anything, I became the anti-Milf, and look like I’m carrying twins. My attempts to lose weight have been unsuccessful. Trying to cut corners, I’ve stuffed myself into a Body Magic, fasted only to binge when I started to eat again, and did a crazy week of cucumbers only that was not good on anyone in my vicinity.
Meanwhile, my Nikes and yoga mat were gathering dust and the little muscle tone I had was now jiggly.
Back to the track.
Armed with my Nike+ and yoga mat, I began to go back to the track. I huffed my way through 3 weeks of couch to 5K and Sleeping Beauty thought we could motivate ourselves by signing up for a 5K. (An aside: she sniggered when she told me to sigh up because she has completed a full marathon which is 26.2 miles. I met her at the end with a sign and a woo-hoo). The race we signed up for was in Downingtown, far enough away so that I would not run into anyone I knew (which I did) and also allowing for me to embarrass myself by crying or vomiting because the running was tough (which, thankfully, I didn’t). Add to that the enticing idea of a burger and beer when I was done, and I was in.
My results were TERRIBLE! I came in 194 out of 199 women. Overall I did 383 out of 399 people. Since it was my first race, I can’t really complain. But I KNOW I can do much better. The following Tuesday, I hit the track hard.
As usual, the mind is willing, but the body is on strike. Apparently, my pack a day habit does not allow me to do more that 90 seconds before my lungs are begging for relief.
Somethings gotta give!
If I don’t want to come in three before a 60 year old woman, I have to completely free my body of impediments. In plain speak, I have to quit smoking.
My past attempts were not pretty and I anticipate this time won’t be either. I have enrolled in school, the Teen is a typical teen, the Boy is well, the Boy, etc, etc! I’m afraid I’ll get fat(ter) and be bitch(ier). Plus, I’ve read research that claims quitting smoking is harder than kicking heroin. I am not looking forward to this AT ALL.
I have one lone cigarette left. Do I crumble it up and start now, or slowly smoke in a symbolic end to a bad habit?
Either way, I feel like crying.