UUUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHH the one about the gym.
Dude, I wanted to start this post with a story about how hard it’s been to regain traction with losing the baby weight and then end with a BAM I NO LONGER WANT TO BURN MY SHAPEWEAR IN A BONFIRE. But no. That is sadly not the case.
The road to my last pregnancy was paved with fertility drugs, miscarriage, depression, and other terrible crap. Ends eventually justified the means and I was beyond grateful to find out I was pregnant after such a journey. (The little Guy is my favorite guy.) My son was born eight months ago and he is exactly who we had been waiting for.
Table all the parental happies for a minute, though, because this post is not about infertility. Or the little Guy. It’s about the tarnish that’s settled onto the word “just” in the sentence, “I’ve just had a baby.”
No. I did not just have a baby. I had a baby eight months ago. And I still feel like I’m trapped in the postpartum schlubby chub club.
So I joined a gym.
I used to go to the gym a lot. It was kind of a family thing and while I never sculpted a physique that would stop traffic (unless a vehicle actually hit me), I was stronger and healthier and slimmer than I am now. I didn’t feel ashamed of my shape and I wasn’t avoiding my closet in favor of athleisure wear.
Oh yeah. “Doing absolutely nothing in my active wear” has been a theme these last eight months.
Postpartum anxiety didn’t help (better now, though) and neither did the c-section recovery. I didn’t feel great after my first c-section and, despite rumors I’d heard that the second one is easier, I did not find that to be true. Add in some wrist and hand issues (I ended up with breastfeeding injuries, which feels silly as eff to type but is actually a thing) and my body felt like something I was renting out instead of taking ownership of.
That did not feel good. I want change. Can’t wait around for change, though. Have to chase change. Change is exhausting. So is this paragraph.
So about a month ago, I joined a gym. It wasn’t a cheap decision, but the gym feels low pressure, has great hours, and also provides childcare for small baby people, so I have no excuse NOT to go. Also, something about paying for it makes me less likely to NOT go because I hate throwing money away. So I’ve been going. Despite feeling shy (is exercise timidity a thing?) and despite feeling flumpy, I’ve been going. I use the treadmill and the free weights and I’m debating a class or two if I can find some glasses and a fake mustache to wear while participating. I’m trying not to weigh myself but instead using a particular pair of pants as my barometer for progress.
I hope to see some progress soon but I’m trying to find small victories in the steadier blood sugars and increase of energy. And also in the “hey, I left my house and didn’t spend the entire day juggling kid requirements only.”
Hopefully, in time, I’ll schedule my shapewear bonfire, but in the meantime, I’ll try and find some pride in taking small steps now. Especially wearing these mad cool glasses and this fake mustache.