I've decided that I'm tired of looking the way I do. I'm tired of weighing so much.
Plan A was simply to complain and moan and cry when ever I tried on clothes. And then eat ooey, gooey deserts after crying. Plan A was a dismal failure. I can't figure out why.
I've now enter Plan B. Plan B involves me wrestling and herding three active girls to the Y at least nights a week by myself while carrying a carseat. The worst part is getting in the door.
Once I drop said children off a child care, I actually exercise. I've decided that I'm going to run a 5K by the time Ian is one. So, I have six more months.
I've been walking for 4 minutes and then running for 1. Yesterday, I actually managed to look like I was running and not dying. I was feeling really good about myself.
That is of course until SHE showed up. By she, I mean the lady who climbed onto the treadmill and began to run continuously and effortlessly.
That wasn't the bad part.
She was 7 months pregnant.
It made me almost result to Plan A.