Recently I’ve noticed a strange occurrence. My stomach will begin to hurt after I’ve been sitting for any length of time. At first, I thought it was too-tight jeans, but then I realized the pain would arrive with any number of pants or skirts that fastened at the waist. Conclusion: my clothes are shrinking!
I suppose there is another explanation for this disturbing phenomenon: I might possibly, perhaps, be gaining an ever so slight bit of weight; which would make sense because I basically stopped all forms of exercising after I survived the mini-marathon last May. True, I do attend weekly geriatric yoga and occasionally walk the dog around our basketball goal, but for my body type, the lack of aerobic activity is finally starting to show.
And what really ticks me off is that the pounds aren’t going where I need them most. My face and chest could actually stand to be a little plumper, while my thighs and behind are already plenty large. But nooooo, become a couch potato and the new fat immediately heads for his friends.
The only solution (besides giving up my nightly cherry pop tart and glass of milk, and that ain’t gonna happen) is to start an exercise program, but I’m seriously lacking the motivation. I already ran the marathon and took on P90X. And my clothes do still fit, albeit a little more snuggly. Plus, I have to consider two significant physical defects: my crappy knees and reduced bladder control. No jumping jacks for this girl!
Swimming is a great option, but laps in a pool are so high maintenance. Drying and de-frizzing my ginger hair alone can take a full 30 minutes! Who’s got the time for that? Speaking of time, a serious “lack thereof” is another one of my excuses. For me, working out has to occur in the morning, because once evening hits, my life revolves around kids and husband and wine. But I hate waking up early, especially to [gulp]exercise.
Regardless, I must think of something. I’ve always been in good shape and like knowing that when the Zombie Apocalypse comes, I’ll be able to run for the hills (or cornfields). Right now, I’d barely reach the nearest round-about before collapsing in a pile of stretch marks and hyperventilation. I suppose I could start with some hard-core walking; maybe throw in some light dumbbells to tighten the ole triceps. It’s not glamorous, but if it’ll help me outrun a dead person and keep clothing from cutting off my circulation, I’m in. Power walking, here I come! Peace out.