Wednesday, August 12, 2009

SPF 50 and Sweat-Soaked Shorts



To say that I let myself go is really an understatement. But I did.

I have viewed my move to a new state/city/climate as a new start. Also, I wholly admit that my copious use of powder to alleviate chaffing is quite gross. It isn't quite as effective in a climate in which the minute I step outside the combination of cornstarch and sweat causes a type of paste to develop and fall out of places that are a little embarrassing.

So, adequately lubed up with sunblock, I began taking the kids out in the morning before the sun got hot enough to cause too much of a h
eat rash or sunstroke. I would push the baby in the stroller and the 8 year old would ride his bike. "This will be a fantastic family activity," I thought as I mentally patted myself on the back. W likes to ride his bike, M likes to watch the animals/birds/cars from her stroller. I'm sweating the poundage off. Win, win, win.

Surprisingly, it was fun for the 1 year old. In our neighborhood, there are many dog walkers, bunnies, stray cats and interesting garbage lying along side the street (the garbage pick up day is interesting; they'll pick up anything. ANYTHING. This is a story for later).

The one who had the problem with the entire situation was the 8 year old who immediately turned into a whiny baby on his bicycle.
Following are some of his protestations that I listened to for about two weeks before, armed with instructions, a phone, an open Facebook page (to talk to Dad) and a questionable guard dog, I finally left him at home as I trudged off on my twenty minute walk around our neighborh
ood.

"My helmet is too tight." He unstraps the helmet. I yell. He cries, then straps the helmet back up.

"I need a new bike!" Upon which I explain there are many other things that will be purchased before he gets a new bicycle.

"I'm hoooooooottttttttt!" Upon which I tell him to ride a bit faster to catch a breeze.


"Why do I have to wear a helmet?" I explain the reason, which seems to be a waste of my breath as he has surely heard this hundreds of times. Also, I am panting and uncomfortably sweating my fat ass off.


"How much longer?" Upon which I explain that we are out for at least twenty minutes, and that we have only been going a
t this for five minutes; therefore, he must endure fifteen more, so shut the hell up and keep going (I didn't really say that).

Tears were a daily occurrence, and I pondered ways to toughen this kid up all of which surely would have elicited calls to Department of Human Services.


So, my jogs began occurring a little earlier when the husband could be with him. Or the precautions were repeated and the warnings were were laid out as he plopped down in front of the Drake and Josh episode he had seen four hundred times before.

Because, as you notice as you read the verbage, the walk had turned into a jog. I dare to call it a jog, as it is more like a slow, laborious shuffle. My husband went out for a "run" with me exactly one time and I could see him silently mocking me as I shuffled and he walked just a little bit faster.

The pounds haven't come off as fast as t
hey did when I stopped eating a bag of chips every night, but the endurance has gotten better and I am continuing to push the wee one around our neighborhood in her regular stroller ~I am holding out on the jog stroller thing until I can look the part of a real jogger and wear actual shorts without having them ride up in between my thighs.

The elastic waist capri workout pants gradually were phased out in lieu of longish shorts technically should be called bermudas. The following picture is what I envision a "real jogger" to look like; I am definitely not there.

Yesterday, I tentitively tried out the shorts ~ really cute hot pink ones that were too big pre-pregnancy, but at this time had to be stretched in several different places to acheive the illusion that they actually fit.

The husband assured me that my butt wasn't
hanging out the back several times before I set out. However, I realized very quickly that I would be digging them out of my crotch for my entire two mile loop.

The two miles has turned into 2.5, although the whole process is slow, sweaty and elicits stares at the dripping fat girl from the lawn maitenance people every morning. I know that they are wondering, "does she need help?" But I force a smile, wave and keep on going.


I shuffle on, toward a 5K, 150 pounds, a half marathon....or whatever comes first.

7 comments:

loliac said...

Amen, sister!!!!

Heather said...

I'd be face down wheezing in the roadway - needing real assistance, so you're doing waaaaayyyyy better than I ever could! You go girl - powder trail and all! ; )

kris in MN said...

Oh man - you crack me up woman, you need a column, this stuff pertains to all of us "fat girls" - hysterical!!!

Anonymous said...

You made me laugh so hard my overnight guest had to come down and ask what I was laughing at! Love your blog - keep writing! I can totally see Wes in this one! :o) Don't tell him I said that! ha ha

Love you guys!

Pat (Nana)

Anonymous said...

I was laughing so hard reading this that my overnight guest came down to see what I was doing! You have to keep blogging - I LOVE it! I also can see Wes in this scenario! Don't tell him I szid that! ha ha ha

Love you guys!!

Pat (Nana)

Anonymous said...

Mary Ann-
You make me laugh- you really should write a book or a column- I hope you keep posting!!ha!
Kari

JustKelly said...

Amen sister, amen...and KUDOS to you for getting active. Something I have yet to do myself :\