Saturday, January 9, 2016

Here we go again

My adult life, after giving many a birth of course, has consisted of two cycles. Good diet and exercise or fanatical dedication to snacks and naps. 

I'm currently wiping the crumbs from my face, peeling myself off the couch and aspiring to complete 8-12 weeks of some kind of total bullschnit guaranteed to get me back in my pants of yesteryear.
In fact, just yesterday I went for a run. In my pajamas. It's not as weird as it sounds. I sleep in ensembles perfectly acceptable to sweat in. As I ran around my neighborhood in full view of the public I realized my Capri style jammy pants didn't quite cover my mismatched socks and I was sort of maybe definitely covered in baby food, slobber, spit up, and possibly some coffee. My mascara had been rubbed off to nestle in my under eye bags and my head gear is far left of shabby. I stand by that decision though, my ears get cold. I'd rather resemble a crazy bag lady than have cold ears. I quit at cold ears. I'll quit everything at cold ears. It won't matter what it is, I quit. I call my entire ensemble shabby shit show couture. 

I don't care though, I really don't. I was thinking about this while giving myself my usual internal pep talk "you can do it!" "You're already halfway to halfway to halfway" "The power of Christ compels you" etc etc not once did I remind myself of my thigh gap aspirations...I did several times digress into fantasies of a Batman persuasion. 
Men and women are built differently so it makes sense that to some extent our fitness routines are different. I get that. What I don't get is the vast difference in rhetoric. Every fitness fad that is supposed to appeal to me claims "look your best" "get that sexy figure you've always wanted!" "Get Bikini ready!" Look better, look smaller, look younger, look different than you look and then look at you! Yeah! There's just one problem with the sales pitch. I don't want to look better more than I want these cookies. 

Men's advertisement preach a whole different kind of sermon. Gain this, gain that, achieve more, set new records, save the world. Now that's a train I'll board. Right? I want to be able to do things that I wouldn't think are possible. I want to flex muscles I didn't know I had. 
I want a different fitness pitch. I need a different fitness pitch. It's pretty awkward when you go back to wearing maternity pants. It's even more awkward when you buy another pair even though your baby is 8 months old. (But they are so roomy in all the right places!!)

What it all boils down to is there is a right way and a wrong way to trigger my go go gadget motivation.

Coach: slim sexy legs
Me: eh there's some new shows on Netflix I'm needed at. 
Coach: There is a distance named after the man it killed.
Me: YES! 
Coach: Are you not lifting weights because you're worried about bulking up and losing your feminine figure?
Me: I'm not lifting weights because I'm lazy
Coach: What if you could one arm that piano?
Me: Holy shizzle! The kids would fly in to a chore doing frenzy at the mere mention of my name! Let's start now! I want to lift something now! I've always thought I had a vast store of potential untapped warrior power. 
Instructor: Make it a morning habit and you will look and feel younger. I promise.
Me: that sounds like too much of a commitment. I want to cheat on yoga with Pilates just after this one conversation. Pilates has a machine that looks like a mid evil French torture device. 
Instructor: One armed hand stand
Me: Yoga for life bitch. One love.

Is that so horrible? Am I really asking too much? I want a 12 week program that will prepare me to fight a bear. Or climb Everest with a trusty Sherpa. Or roundhouse someone in the face repeatedly while nonchalantly winning a game of chess. Maybe just jump over a car. 
Looking good is awesome. I'm not gonna lie. Looking like a hot mess is less awesome. Hashtag true story. For me those good looks have to simply be a delightful biproduct of hard work though, not a reason for it. 
As of this week I'm officially back to running. I'm back to lifting. I've even started seeing yoga again. It's not for a dress size. It's because there is a small chance that Jean Claude Van damn is on the brink of a midlife crisis and he's going to unleash a rage unlike any rage ever seen before. His furious feet will rain down upon the innocent in suburbs all across America and I have a family to save. 
I'm going to hit him in the baby maker with my piano. Maybe even just curveball it with my left hand.