My husband began Seal Team training. No, he isn’t becoming a Navy Seal. It’s a get-in-shape program started by an ex-Navy Seal. He wakes up at 5:30 in the morning and runs and squats and bear-crawls with 150 other nuts for an hour.
My first response? OMG! You’re going to get fit and I’m still going to look like I am wearing a tire around my waist.
Which doesn’t particularly surprise me since two months ago I told a friend that I am growing out my hair. She said something like: But it looks so cute short.
My first response? You just think I’m OLD.
Yes, this would be why I look askance when someone suggests I go with my first instinct or gut reaction.
My first response? You just want me to go to JAIL.
But enough about my crazy. Let’s discuss this get-in-shape postpartum business. In fact, let’s start with the next postpartum mom to mention how quickly she fit into regular jeans. You know what she’s going to get? NOTHING. You hear me? NO COMMENT ON YOUR BLOG/FACEBOOK STATUS/TWEET. I will say nothing as it is still difficult to type while sucking in to wear my “big” jeans at nine months out.
I have to remind myself that I lost all the E-baby-weight in less than a year with no diet or exercise (except for the winning combination of sheer exhaustion and chasing an infant).
And since N is my second child, I might have to work a little harder, but that’s normal. And any sentence that includes me and NORMAL is a KEEPER.
(I’m thinking of running the annual 10K but would probably have to accept that I’m officially weaning N. So I’ll just pretend both and neither are happening. Because that always works out so well.)
And let’s not forget about my hair. The only pictures of me without my children are pictures of my new hairdos. In response to my LARGE pregnancies, I get hip hairdos, and hip this year equals short and shorter and shortest.
And I love them. At least when I get home from the hairdressers. Then I go through the hair-in-shock phase. Then the how-did-she-use-this-overly-expensive-hair-goo-again phase. (I seriously had to reexamine those first pictures to remember what stuck up where.) Then I get out the scarves. Until my next hair appointment.
So I’m growing it out. LONG. LONG. LONG. Because I know what to do. PONYTAILS!
And because I have an old-person theory. If you are older than (fill-in-the-blank-as-I-keep-getting-older), you cannot have long hair. If you look twenty from the back and sixty up front, you’re doing something WRONG. Like terrifying young children. So this may be (one of) my last hoo-rahs with long hair.
So if you are out and about over the next few months, keep your eyes peeled. I’ll be the runner in my husband’s shorts with the tiny ponytail avoiding the cops and hoping to not leak milk. You can’t miss me.