The Long Road to Roundish and the Battle Back to Hopelessly Average

I used to be a skinny kid.

Growing up, I was a picky eater. My mother laid awake nights, worried about how little I would eat. She tried tough love, and made me sit in the kitchen until my dinner was finished. I sat. And sat some more. Missing Lawrence Welk.  Missing Hee Haw (If I strained from my seat, I could hear the last of the lyrics "you met another and pffft..you was GONE.."). My Mom tried MAKING me eat my dinner, but I wouldn't and the results of making me eat goulash were unsightly. So I subsisted on bread. Which is why I have such issues with carbs to this very day (I love you bread!)  My mom fretted that I was going to get Rickets. She pointed at my then-skinny bruised kid legs as evidence. I had no idea what Rickets were, so I hid my bony legs under the tablecloth and hoped that the jelly I put on the bread would combat whatever they were.

Meatloaf...gross.

Meatloaf...gross.

I lived to fight another few years and my skinny became average. I got married much too young and still ate whatever i wanted, which included a lot of bread and soda. My new Mother in Law (MIL) told me that i wouldn't be any good at being picky as I grew up and she was right. My husband's plate always looked more interesting than mine. Soon, i tried some of his dinner. Then, more food items were opened up to me. It was glorious -  and a curse. Gravy? I don't like gravy... or peanut butter AND syrup on my pancakes. Dang! I do...

The walls crashed in after I got pregnant with my first child. NEVER in my life have I been so hungry. I would get up in the night to eat. I would call and screech in the phone at my sister to hurry up and meet me for lunch at 10:45 am. This ravenous hunger was unheard of for me, and was a dead giveaway to people I hadn't yet told I had an alien on board. Our daughter"s DNA is probably made of cheeseburgers.

If the dots were cheeseburgers,
this would be accurate

I slimmed back down relatively quickly after she was born, but I noticed my portion selection seemed to increase. It didn't get any better with our son. I swam and walked a lot, and I had healthy pregnancies. It was the post-partum of the second pregnancy that took a knife and murdered my metabolism.

I tried the South Beach diet, which is just what a new mother needs. No energy giving carbs, just a lot of meat and eggs. One cracker or a handful of cereal felt like a shot of heroin. I made spaghetti squash and tried to tell myself it was pasta. That was the low point. I celebrated by eating a sleeve of saltines. Ok, two. With a Coke.

Processed, white-flour goodness...

Now, years later, I am just...meh. Not terrible, but never where I want to be. I like to cook and I like to eat. I like to eat after 8 pm, and I like bread and Starbucks Chai Tea. I try to eat whole grains. With butter.

Problem #1:
I have a serious problem with butter (and starch, but who's counting?).  Being home more has expanded my desire to cook and well, it is starting to show.

Problem #2:
I dislike exercise. Special Agent says I have a chip on my shoulder about it, and he may have a point. See My Running Program for exhibit A. Exhibit B is my physique, and please don't look. I camouflage as best i can. I wish I had a dress like Mrs. Roper's. That would solve a lot of problems for me, and leg shaving would be optional.

Come and knock on our door...

Did I mention i don't like exercise? Among my my similarities to a jackass is my ability to walk 20 miles.... but can't run one. It just isn't in my brontosaurus makeup. I like to move slowly and chomp the leaves (or dinner rolls) as I go. I do not like to chase around, getting my heart rate up and such. This makes cardio a difficult concept for me.

But...I have to. I JUST HAVE TO.  Fate and my increasing age and waistline demand it. My children see a sedentary mother with a workout superstar for a father. I am losing the race at cool. And...i am terrified of summer clothes and winter weight.

In My Running Program, I talk about the Couch to 5k Program, a walk/run program designed for couch potatoes. I did it for a bit, but mostly perfected the couch portion of the program. I really excelled in that area.

But I am back again and I have gone 6 whole times. It hasn't been too bad, except for when I let my 10 year old daughter join me. I would have died from embarrassment if I werent' bursting with pride at how badly she kicked ass on her decrepit ol' mother. She is not considered to be a fast runner on her sports teams, but compared to me she looked like a gazelle. She yelled "C'mon Mom" over her shoulder as her ponytail bounced. If I could have caught her, I might have hugged her. And then, pushed her down.

When I am alone, I run on a treadmill and adjust the speed up and down. I try to read the lips of the Kardashians on the elevated row of TVs and it helps pass the time. Some days, I am lucky enough to get the treadmill next to a Kelly Ripa look-alike in a tiny sports bra and shorty running shorts. I've considered suicide. I was trying to act cool at first, but accidentally stepped off of the side of the treadmill belt, making it squeal loud enough to illicit stares from the rest of the normal looking people in the room, including Kelly Ripa2. I yelled "is everybody awake now??" to break the tension.  Kelly2 smiled at me sadly. Harrumph.

This looks a lot like her, but this
Kelly is wearing a larger top 

It is obvious to she and the rest of the group that I am a newbie. I don't have my own water bottle and I almost killed myself on the treadmill belt. I can't be trusted. I probably won't last. Instead of looking fit and tan in my sports bra and running shorts, I am wearing mismatched gear and I keep having to pull my running pants up. My Ipod headphones won't stay on my ears. I am hot (hot and sweaty, that is). No one wants to be me. Even me. I want to be someone laying on the couch, eating bread and butter and watching Regis and Kelly - not huffing and puffing next to her twin.

But I am doing it people. Now, get off my back.  Or get me the number for Mrs. Roper's stylist. And pass the saltines.