I’ve decided that I’m not nearly enough of a cliche, so I’ve decided to join a gym. In January. Because it’ll be a lot of fun to make the regular gym-goers angry when they watch me ineptly try to get the hang of whatever masochistic exercise equipment they want to use.
I’ve suspected for awhile now that, rather than losing the baby weight, I’ve begun to add new weight on top of the baby weight. It’s been a gradual gain, but there’s no denying it when your pants don’t fit nicely and you dread sitting on the ground because your tummy rolls get in the way (nice mental image, huh?).
I just think that if you’re breastfeeding AND gaining weight, you’re doing something horribly wrong. Something I hope to rectify by, oh I don’t know, moving more. Eating less, for sure, but I think that maybe moving will help.
Wes has promised to be part of the solution by helping me cut desserts out of our daily routine, and I’m sad to say that desserts have been a part of our daily routine. There’s just nothing nicer than sitting down to watch a show together with something sweet to nibble on.
Those days are over, though. I dislike very much the extra weight I’m carrying around, and would love to lose it before gaining it all back again whenever we decide to start trying for baby number two. Which won’t be for a long while, mind you, but weight takes a long while to lose so I’d better get cracking!
What I’m considering now is the possibility of hiring a personal trainer. They’re almost inhumanely expensive, but if I’m going to get up really early to go work out while the baby is asleep, I want to make sure it’s effective. I would hate to be losing out on precious sleep for nothing. Like, really really hate it. Like, I’d hate it so much I’d probably eat an entire birthday cake by myself just to be vindictive.
I think I get to start my membership tomorrow, and thus will begin the great weight loss project of 2011. If I remember to measure myself I’ll let you know how my progress goes, but I’m pretty sure it’ll be measured in terms of soreness and pants-fit-ability. I have a pair of capris I bought right before getting pregnant that I’d love to be able to wear this summer.
So here goes nothing. And by nothing I mean hours of sweating (which I loathe) and muscle burning (which I detest) and no desserts (which makes me sniffle).
Wish me luck.