Running through a pool of jello

Today I found myself describing my day to my husband as feeling like I'm constantly trying to run through jello. Fighting against everything just to get even one more inch ahead of where I am, yet never feeling like I've made any headway.

My trip to Toys R Us today is a perfect example. So I drive myself all the way across town to get there in order to buy stuffed Angry Birds for the boys for Easter. Numero Uno saw one at a party this weekend that was adorableI get there and they only have the little ones. Luckily though they have 2 of the red ones and 2 of the green pigs left. That's all they've got, so I snag them up. Fast forward a few hours when I go to show hubster what I got, and he asks me why I only have 2 birds and 1 pig. Crap. I look at the receipt and see that in fact I had been charged for all 4 of the darn things, but somehow only 3 ended up in my bag. I hope against hope that it has somehow fallen out of the bag in my car. Nope. Call the store to see if they have found it at the register or something. Nope. They just tell me to call back later and check again. Yeahhhhh.

Sigh. That's why I feel like I'm running through jello. I struggle to get this thing done so I'll feel like I accomplished something today, will feel ready for the craziness that will be this weekend, and sure as heck it still goes awry.

As Numero Uno would say, I'm super "fruserated" right now. Grrrr.

Bear with me, I'm learning.

Just a bit of housekeeping for today . . .

I started this blog recently with little to no thought of safety in mind. Helllloooo . . . head must have been securely shoved somewhere unmentionable. So I've changed the title (honestly, I like this one a lot better anyway, and now it doesn't contain our last name. Again, rolling eyes at self), and have given the kids their respective nicknames for anonymity (Numero Uno, Middle Man, and baby Pooper). Seeing how hubster and I occasionally dabble in life with some unsavory characters due to our careers, this seems to be a smart move. I hope this all makes sense to anyone who reads (seriously, is there even anyone who reads? Probably not -- no need to stress then, right?). And for those of you unsavory characters that we actually invite into our lives simply for our entertainment (you know who you are), you go ahead and feel free to continue knowing our business right along with everyone's actual names. I like to live dangerously like that.

Better to grow a brain late than never, I suppose. Big ol' DOH!

Getting healthy just might kill me

So it's no big secret -- I quit working out when I found out I was pregnant last May.  Was just too afraid of losing another wee one, and felt it was safer to wait it out until I knew it had stuck. By the time I had hit my 2nd Trimester, when I knew we were golden, I was in a rut of not working out and got afraid that re-starting would actually be a bad idea too. I essentially talked myself into being a lazy a$$.

Fast forward to this week, when I decide it's time to get back into shape. After all, swimsuit (AHHHHH!) season is right around the corner, and I only have 6 months until our cruise, during which I'll be expected to wear a swimsuit (AHHHHHH!) daily for a week. Something has GOT to change. Wouldn't want to scare those Caribbean natives now, would we?

I decided to join a boot camp this week with a lady who trained me at the beginning of last year. At that time I was probably the most fit person in her group (don't be impressed -- that isn't saying much), and thought that the other girls were pretty whiny and uncommitted. I went to my first session with the same trainer, a new group on Tuesday. This time I'M the whiny and out of shape one. Those girls were hard core. Though I did (pretty much) everything she asked of us during that hour, I felt like a slug trying to wade through mud for at least the last 1/2 of it.

And now I can't move. I was expected to return today, but honestly if I can't WALK or sit down to tinkle, how on earth am I going to do 50 burpees????? It's inconceivable.

So I'm on to a new game plan. I do intend to return. I DO. However, I'm going to hold off until May. During the next few weeks I'm going to work on SLOWLY re-integrating my body into exercise. I realize that 3 weeks is essentially nothing, but I'm determined to return to this group before they think I am the slacker that I probably am.

Now to the really scary part. I'm going to use this blog to keep myself accountable. Yes, in front of the entire world (new friends, old high school nemeses, former crushes, etc., included!), I'm going to self-report. 

Almost 3 months ago when I delivered baby Pooper I weighed just over 190 (I'm honestly not sure how much above 190 I got, because I refused to acknowledge that I went above 190). Today I weigh in at 163.5.  Ouch. I'm actually going to post some measurements here soon too (once I can move my body around enough to even measure myself. Again -- ouch), because I realize that it's more about getting in shape at this point than the number on the scale. I realize this in part because I actually didn't think I was doing too badly in the low 160s, since I started out the pregnancy at 155.  However, it is now painfully (literally) clear that though the number isn't horrid, the state of my body IS.

Let the torture begin . . .