I Work Out

I hate exercise.  I do it mainly so I can tell people about it.  Of course it would be nice to lose a few pounds, but it seems like people are more accepting if I tell them I have been working it out.  I, of course, have to join a class because working out on my own is completely pointless.  It usually ends with me eating something while lying on the living room floor lifting my legs. Here is an summary of my experience in class:

So I show up a minute before class starts because I waited until the last moment convincing myself that I couldn’t go because I had a headache, was tired and my daughter wasn’t yet bathed.  As the class starts, I discover I left my water in the car and have to run to get it…and by run, I mean walk as slow as possible to the car and then once I hit the door to the class act as if I have been hurrying.

All the spots in the back are taken, so I am forced to take the front and center spot.  I join in to where the others have started and instantly break a sweat. I was already winded from the 20 feet I pretended to hurry.  After several moves, I am sure that we are about half way through the hour and I glance at the clock.  5 minutes have passed.

20 minutes in- I notice there is a pretty good sized dark spot on the floor.

25 minutes in- It looks like maybe there is a leak.  I inspect the ceiling while doing some sort of traveling with my feet.  There doesn’t appear to be any sign of a leak.

30 minutes in- Butt kicks...ya right.  If my shoe makes it all the way off the ground, I deem it a success.
The spot is growing.  That is so weird, I look to the ceiling again and then consider the possibility of some sort of liquid rising up from the floor, but we are on the second floor and I rule that out.  Oh shit…the realization takes hold that the spot is from me.

31 minutes in- It occurs to me that the spot is in the exact same shape as a fetus-umbilical cord and all.  Shit- I have either sweat or peed out a baby.  The same carpet I danced on at my high school prom now bears a sweat baby.  I start laughing to myself at this thought and then make awkward eye contact with the instructor.  I want to holler out “Oh no- not laughing at you”, but I am not sure how to explain the randomness of the thoughts that just went through my mind, so I just keep locked on and continue to laugh.

35 minutes in- jumping jacks…Are you fucking kidding me?  I briefly consider doing them.  I assess my situation.  I do have black pants on, so if I did piss myself, no one would notice.  I decide not to risk it and do a modified version. I am the youngest person in the room and the only one not doing full-fledged jumping jacks. How do these ladies do it?! I make a mental note to start regular kegel exercises.

37 minutes in- I look like a participant in a wet t-shit contest, but I am losing…oh yes, am I losing.  I would have been pushed off the stage. 

40 minutes in- She is so energetic.  I love her energy and hate it at the same time.  I want to find something wrong with her…nope, there isn’t a damn thing.  I guess I will appreciate her attempt to motivate my sweaty ass into pushing it a little more.

45 minutes in- I am having an out of body experience.  I think I may have blacked out.  I am fairly certain fat from my ass just touched the back of my head while trying to do “fast feet” Flashdance style.

45 1/2 minutes in- Every expletive ever uttered just ran through my head.  Just keep pushing it down.  Oh my God, I am choking on the words. I am going to barf, going to barf.  Acid is rising in my throat.

47 minutes in- We lie on the mat.  I had no idea these things held so much heat.  It feels like my back is on fire, but I know this is impossible because it is not dry enough to hold a flame. 

48 minutes in- We roll to our hands and knees.  My body has left a perfect sweat impression on the mat and I am trying to use my body as a shield so no one else can see it.  Is my ass really that big?  I try to fan the impression away. 

50 minutes in- We are lying on the mat…or at least I am.  We are supposed to be holding our lower body up while kicking our legs.  At this point, I am not even pretending to do the moves. I am just lying there trying to come to.  And 1,2 and 3.  I swore I was lifting my leg, but nothing happened.  I have lost all motor control.  I may be paralyzed.

55 minutes in- Cool down- It is about freaking time.  Even though I have already been cooling down for 5 minutes, I am going to need about 50 more and a high pressure hose.

Work Out end-  I try to straight leg it down the stairs.  I look like a sweaty, red faced mummy. Hey young ripped boy judging me on your little machine down there- just you wait.  You will marry someone who will be just like me someday or you will be fat… maybe even both.  Please avert your eyes from this hot mess making it down the stairs.

After work out- I do what any great athlete does at after a successful workout.  I drive my car to Casey’s, take part in the buy 2 slices of pizza and get a free fountain pop deal and then eat a large chunk of frozen chocolate Easter bunny after returning home.  I earned it damnit.

The Dirty Kid

The other day at a ballgame, a stranger offered to fix my 4 year old's hair.  At first I thought: “Wow, that was really nice of her.”  That thought soon turned into, “That was kind of strange.” Then further into “Oh Crap.”

It is like I was seeing her in focus for the first time ever.  She was a wreck.

Her beautiful long hair was half in, half out of a ponytail in a mess of rats and some residue of candy that had matted up the front section into a mini-dread.  Her green plaid shorts could not have clashed more with her purple polo covered in pink hearts.  Her mis-matched clothes were filthy with both dirt and the appearance that she had rolled around in Cheetos.  She was wearing Mary Janes that in a former life had been fancy shoes, but were now being worn without socks and covered in mud.  Her fingernails were daggers with a solid dirt line under each one.

What in the hell happened to her?  More alarmingly, what in the hell has happened to my ability to maintain a child? 

My first child would have never looked like that.  She wore the clothes I laid out.  Her hair was done and usually had a nice matching accessory in it.  I always had a bag prepared with wipes and a change of clothes in case of even the smallest mishap.  Her fingernails and toenails were painted. She was pristine.  What the fuck happened?  How had I gone so far off the rails?

But I knew the answer: exhaustion.  I am just so tired-ALL the time and it the worst kind of tired-the mental one.  I have taken the advice of “Pick your Battles” to the new extreme of “Do whatever is necessary to avoid any conflict or disagreement with my toddler who will scream and make my insides get all twisted with anxiety”  This has led to her picking out her own clothes, doing her hair only once a day in the morning (ponytail is the only option, dictated by her), me not suggesting appropriate footwear and getting her to bed as early as possible at night, which leaves no time to do general up-keep.

Somehow the second child broke me.  There are things you do with a second child that you would never do with the first.  My first child didn’t taste pop until she was 6 and even then and now the only pop she drinks is Sprite.  Parker downed her own bottle of grape pop the other day because I couldn’t listen to “I am thirrrrsty” one more freaking time without losing my shit.  She eats candy, rides her bike in flip flops,  wears tennis shoes without socks and sandals with, screams constantly, doesn’t finish her vegetables, has no manners, climbs every climbable surface in the house… and I just let her.  My former self would have never stood for such absurdity.

I could pretend that it is a matter of time- that I just don’t have any, but we all know that is not true.  I know what is going on on both coasts (and in the ATL) on the Real Housewives, so I know I have time.  It is the energy level that gets me.  I have just enough at the end of the day to make it to the kitchen to drum up a snack and that is with picking no fights with my toddler.  On days with fights, I have to have my older daughter bring me the snacks.

Somewhere along the way, I just got tired.  The kind of tired no amount of sleep can fix.  I make decisions based strictly on the path of least resistance.  I can’t even imagine what would happen if I had another child.  You would most likely see the third one driving my car around town in just his/her diaper. 

I guess you  just get used to a certain amount of crazy and build up an immunity, until pretty soon you don’t even realize that your daughter looks like she is feral, which in some ways, is probably an accurate portrayal of my life now.  All I can hope is that I haven’t done any long term damage to either of my daughters: one of them kept completely in line and the other not knowing what the hell a line is.  Until then, there is always tomorrow for clipping fingernails and painting toenails, let’s just make it through today.