But luckily, the landing wasn't too bad because my posterior is nicely padded thanks to the consumption of (almost) four boxes of Candy Cane Joe-Joe's over the past three weeks.
Yikes. Did I just admit that to the world?
Fortunately, I'm mailing out the remaining boxes of Joe-Joe's to three lucky winners (and a couple South Carolina cousins), because those suckers would be history in this house once that fourth box of cookies is finally gone.
My challenge with consistent exercise is that I'm working and looking after children and darn it is SO hard to find the time. And this first week back to work has been brutal.
Although I had plans to hit the gym first thing Monday morning, for a host of reasons that included catching up on laundry and thank you notes and cleaning out the refrigerator, I went to bed really late Sunday night. And then the kids were up throughout the night sick with a monster cold that they picked up in Northern California.
First thing Monday morning I had a conference call. And then another. And I was quickly pulled in to work. And then it was suddenly 3 PM and I was still in my pajamas with a crying and runny nosed baby in my arms. Tuesday and Wednesday turned out to be much the same way. Up way too late at night, starting work way too early in the morning, realizing as the sun is setting that I've yet to get myself dressed for the day and there are boogies on my pj top.
Gym? What Gym?
Heck, I haven't even brushed my TEETH.
And if you knew me, you'd know that there are few things worse in my book than not getting dressed IMMEDIATELY upon getting out of bed. So these past few days have really tanked on my "daily success meter."
You want to know how else I rank my daily success?
1) Making the beds,
2) Coming out to a kitchen that was thoroughly cleaned before I went to bed,
3) Not YELLING about things that don't require YELLING,
4) Enjoying the little moments,
5) And - most importantly - getting out of bed at least the same time as the children, as opposed to say 30 minutes after the children and discovering that their attempts at making an omelet didn't pan out. Literally. Hence, the clean kitchen that existed when you went to bed, is now coated in EGG.
Tonight, when I was standing in the bathroom giving the children a bath, I stretched a little bit and it felt good. Until I realized that it wasn't very easy to touch my toes. So I pushed myself a little further and suddenly, my hamstrings and stomach muscles went in to the most painful muscle spasm, simultaneously. And I had to grab on to the vanity while screaming for my husband because I thought for sure I'd need an ambulance or maybe just a hearse.
See, my problem (one of them, at least) is that I can't make time for myself.
I'm really good at putting everything before my own needs.
It's not unusual that I'll take care of all my work e-mail and review 10 reports and approve $500,000.00 worth of invoices and mop the floors and scrub the toilets before I feed myself something more substantial than ... well, a Joe-Joe.
While I do an outstanding job (if I may say so myself) taking care of the people around me, I do a real crappy job at taking care of myself. My children eat three square meals a day and are loaded up on organic fruit. I eat the scraps off their plates like a dog.
I hate to blame my family, but I will.
It's all my father's fault.
When I was a child, my dad would work crazy hours. And whenever I would go visit him in his drugstore, he'd be standing behind the counter working - working - working - never taking a break for anything or anybody, unless it was a customer who wanted to know if they could take amoxicillin with their birth control pills (Uh, not if you want for them to WORK.)
Someone, usually my sister Beth, would ask, "Dad, do you want a frappe?" and Dad would mumble, "Yeah, that sounds good" and keep working. One of us would traipse off to Brigham's and pick up "lunch" (or "dinner") and then traipse back to the drugstore. With one hand, Dad would suck down his vanilla frappe (always vanilla) and with the other hand, he'd be counting pills and typing out prescription labels on his typewriter.
That's just the way my family rolls.
So when I forget to eat or am grabbing food here and there on the fly, my husband will say, "You are SUCH a Foley." And I am. To the core. Now go get me a FRAPPE!
I know that I'm in a motivated, disciplined slump and I know I'll come out of it. I just need to go sign myself up for something. An exercise class. An athletic event. Something where I can establish some goals.
Right now, I just want for our family to get over the first quarter plague of 2010. (Because I'm not so naive to believe that we won't be sick again this year), so that I can start working out. I loved the way I felt and looked when I was exercising consistently. Perhaps in the meantime, it would help if I picked out a new outfit to wear. I think this one looks nice...
I'm sure I'd look just like that, too.
Yeah. Something tells me she hasn't eaten four boxes of Joe-Joe's in her entire skinny, crazy flexible LIFE.
What are your fitness goals for this year?
Perhaps 2010 is the year you are going to nurture yourself?
Or, perhaps 2010 is the year you are going to welcome a NEW addition in to your world? One of my best friends, Lorie, is due ANY DAY now. I'm guessing that her baby boy (William!) is going to be a big one. When I saw the picture she posted of herself, I was immediately transported back to my ninth month of pregnancy with one 10-pound Henry who was camped out on my bladder and all I could think was ... ouch.
Followed by, WHERE'S THE BATHROOM??