Tuesday, December 28, 2010

It's Gotta be Jelly Cause Jam Don't Shake Like That

Afternoon Readers,

While standing at the sink this morning, I came to a conclusion. This conclusion was brought on by the otherworldly shaking my hip/belly fat made while I mixed the twin's bottles. I'm of the opinion that anytime one can watch as a ripple makes it's way from around the lower back and culminate in a size-mic earthquake around the belly button area...there's a potential problem.  It begs desperately for someone to call the National Guard, as you may just take out a few small buildings if your muffin top gyrates wrong. Standing in my sweatshirt, underwear, and fuzzy ankle boot slippers, I decided then and there that it's time for a change. It's time to get off my butt and workout....ugh.
     Anyone who knows me, knows that working out and I are mortal enemies of the most serious kind. Working out is the Darth Vader to my Luke Skywalker...the Joker to my Batman. I hate it and it hates me, and I've been A-ok with this for most of my years on this planet. Now, I'm well aware that there are those who enjoy a very satisfying love affair with it; jogging in their matching spandex and sleek, blond ponytails. I WISH I was that waif of a lady running on the treadmill like a pack of wild wolverines was after her, all the while keeping a smile that says, " I don't have to use a crow bar to zip MY pants." Barf.

     Unfortunately, I'm the girl who wears two sports bras when running, yet still has to hold herself so that gravity doesn't pull her lady lumps to the cold earth. I'm the one who, after five minutes of cardio needs to drag herself to the couch and "heal" by watching What Not To Wear. I wear tights instead of pants, and my belly band has become a daily necessity for getting dressed. I could blame it on the babies, but it wouldn't be totally fair. I mean, I definitely stuffed my face while I was pregnant, but neither of the twins held a gun to my head until I ordered Breakfast from McDonalds every single day. No, I'm afraid that was my poor judgment, and so it's happened with the late night pizzas and the barrage of things I shoveled into my eager little mouth during the past holiday weekend. No one can eat just one of those little peanut butter cookies with the chocolate kiss in the middle. No one.
     So here I am at a crossroads. What program to pick? What baggy t-shirt to choose? Is the elastic in my sports bras even still good, or will it crack and snap when I pull it over my head, causing the loss of a perfectly good eye? Maybe I should dump this idea out of concern for my perfectly good 20/20 vision. I'll mull it over and let you know. Any suggestions?

Until Next Time Readers!