Last week, at nine weeks postpartum, I squeezed myself back into my spandex yoga pants, stuffed my sports bra with cotton breast pads, and made my way back to the gym. After over two months of absolutely zero physical activity and eating nothing but casserole after casserole, I was more than ready to get my butt kicked back into shape.
I trepidatiously started out with a kickboxing class, assuming I would keel over at least ten times in the middle of the jabs and hooks and HI-YA’s!, but to my surprise I only wanted to collapse once or twice, a fraction of what I had originally expected.
A couple days later I attempted a 45 minute spinning class, however when I looked down at my watch and saw that 43 minutes had already passed and we were still out of the saddle and climbing what I could only imagine to be a Mt. Everest-sized hill instead of cooling down, I quickly figured out that I was actually in the middle of a 60 minute class. Do you know how disappointing it is to realize that instead of only having two more minutes left to sweat, you actually have seventeen more minutes? I instantly decided I deserved an extra Kit Kat for all of my unexpected hard work.
Today I’m going to tackle a kettlebell class, and I am quite certain that I might just die. Whoever decided that throwing around heavy iron balls was a good idea must really enjoy The Torture, and probably also does things like eat live frogs for breakfast and pluck out leg hairs one by one for Friday night entertainment.
But hey, if throwing around kettlebells gets me back into my David Kahn jeans, then I’ll do what I have to do.
Goodbye forever.
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