My tale (tail?) of woe

Rate this sin: How bad is it to ask your 12-year-old to rub your bum? Is it less sinful, more sinful, or equally as sinful to ask your 7-year-old? (And we all know there is no way anyone would ask my 10-year-old. That one has no sympathy for my pain.)

Perhaps, pre-judgement, I should start at the very beginning.

And for what it’s worth, I just heard several of you hum, “A very good place to start.”

So, this summer, I was so stressed I lost 15 pounds. In other words, it was a great summer.

But now, I’m more relaxed. And a content Amy is a chubby Amy. Sure, I might look cuter skinnier, but, when thin, I’m a miserable shrew who is jonesing all the time for pie. (I really should work on that.) But I know my health is better thinner, so, to that end, I’ve been taking my chunky self to the gym with new resolve.

Sadly, resolve + gym action is not nearly as effective for my weight loss program as STRESS, but still, I do what I can.

Yesterday, it was YOGA time at the gym. YOGA. I don’t like to brag, but I totally rock at yoga. I have horrible form doing weights. I run like a git. But you say “Downward Dog” and I say  ”Pffft – how long?”

So I yoga-ed. Score. I was feeling all bad to the bone while everyone toppled over and I stood tall. And that pride lead to my debacle. The teacher announced that there would be cardio strength class. I used to totally do cardio strength class at least 3-4 times a week. Of course, that was back when I was Sorta-Skinny-But-Highly- Shrewlike-Amy. I knew this teacher was a complete and merciless nutter, but as I had so mastered his yoga, I figured I’d give it a whirl.

90 jump squats, 80 lumberjacks with a 25 lb. weight and who the monkey knows what else, I was limp with pain. My legs were wobbling.

Even my eyelids hurt.

I came home and willed my cells to heal themselves. (I don’t know if that is good science, but there’s no need to correct me when I’m already down.)

They did not. In fact, they were crying in agony. I tried to sit as little as possible as my recently-squatted-bummy-was on fire…and there was no relief a full 10 hours later. Rather, hour by hour, the pain was ramping up.

This morning, I hobbled about the home, still dying. After the excruciating labor it was to reach the medicine cabinet and open it, I did manage to stuff some pain meds down. My glutes were hot to the touch and felt like little (sigh…large) gluteus rock-euses. I met my match in that sadistic, post-yoga class.

And that’s when I did it. The unthinkable. I begged Abby to deep tissue massage my bummy and thighs. Begged. Sure, that wasn’t her vision of how home school life would be, but I am weak and desperate.

And sadly, still chunky. (Didn’t lose a pound yesterday but I did have a tasty enchilada and a half for dinner.)

Abby said no. She was pretty firm with me. I guess I needed that. She said we’re past the point in our lives where that is OK. I didn’t know there had ever been a time when it was OK. Which got me to thinking – would it be OK to make Annie do it? She is little and doesn’t think I’m nearly as sick-nast as the other two do.

So, gentle reader, that is my saga. My tale of woe. Make that, my tail of woe.

And yes, I worked out again today. Stair machine AND spin. Yes, my bummy still hurts like the heart of poor Kris Kardashian, I mean, Humphries.

Now is your chance to voice your opinion. Come on. You know you want to judge me. It’s easy to do and you won’t have to lift a muscle.

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