I worked out.
For 15 whole minutes.
With the loving support of my Hubs (he set up the TV so I could watch and elliptical at the same time) I did not pass out, did burn all of 100 whopping calories (which I seriously wanted to eat again in the form of some tasty evening snack, but didn't), and did restore my faith in my own willpower (or at least the fear of embarrassing myself as the big winter clothes will soon be unable to cover me up!).
This whole phenomenon of "working out" is actually pretty new to me. In all honesty, I haven't had to work out to keep in relative shape in recent years (or so I told myself). But a recent screening of my cholesterol and my growing belly pudding (I told you it was a funny word) from having baby #3 have catapulted my health front and center.
I actually think I went through various stages of grief. I felt that I was losing my youthfulness, or at certainly I was gaining an older body than I was not ready for. So I was in denial. "It's not that bad." But when recently Owen was playing peek-a-boo with an oddly large portion of my stomach sticking out the side of my comfy pants, I quickly moved on from denial to reality.
So then came anger. The "what the ?" question would be punctuated with choice words about getting older that I refused to believe or want. The Hubs was a total dear. Poor guy listened to rants without saying one word about how if I was so pissed...well, I should darn well do something about it. Luckily, I came to that on my own. He's patient, but not that patient.
So here we are. Day 1. Exercise+me= a happier me. Right?
Why am I writing this? Mostly so that when I'm thinking I don't need to exercise, or that I don't look that bad, I'll remember how good it feels right now to know that I've started. I've started to care about myself a bit more or at least enough.
Enough that the only bellies that we'll be playing peek-a-boo soon with will be those of the 2-and-under set.