In Which I Get Up Off My Rear And Actually Work Out For Once

This morning while Connor was in school, I decided to go down to the gym and work out.

I'm sad to say that other than the occasional date with Jer (yes, we work out on dates, because we are insane like that) this is the first time I've been to the gym in over a month.  With Connor having, on average, one seizure a week, I haven't felt comfortable being away at the YMCA while he's at school, even though it's only about fifteen minutes away.  Since the school has handled a couple of seizures very competently, though, I feel a little more comfortable about the idea of venturing out again. 

I tried out the step class this time.  It was interesting.  For one thing, I have the coordination of a drunken water buffalo, so anything past the most basic of moves made me totally lose the rhythm of things.  Also I made the mistake of spending about thirty minutes on the rowing machine before class, so my quads and calves were already tired.  The emphasis in the step class today was, of course, on squats and lunges.  I was puffing like the aforementioned water buffalo by the end, and I wasn't sure my legs were actually going to function by the time class was over.  It wasn't pretty.

It's really hard not just to get to the gym, but to motivate myself to do anything energy-consuming when Connor's in a round of seizures.  I think that some of the stress from the constant crises manifests in physical exhaustion.  It's a bad cycle, because when I don't exercise I feel more tired, I don't sleep as well, and things go downhill from there.  It's hard to remember to take care of myself when I'm spending so much time taking care of Connor, but I know it's important, so I'm making an effort to get back on track.  My immune system takes a dive when I get really out of shape, and the last thing I need is to get sick.  Not only would it not be particularly fun for me, but Jer has enough on his plate without having to play nursemaid to me, too. 

There's also the fact that if I don't start exercising again I'll have to cut back on the massive amounts of chocolate I consume on a daily basis.  This would be extremely sad; I count chocolate, along with ice cream and (seasonally) Girl Scout cookies as one of my major sources of stress relief.  I mean, it's supposed to release endorphins, right?  So I'll willingly run a few miles around the track rather than give up my precious extra dark goodness.

And finally, there's the fact that due to his spending between three-five hours a day at the gym, Jeremy is not only walking really well, but he's now ripped, too.  We're talking the six pack and everything.  While there is absolutely no way that I'm spending five hours a day at the gym, it is making me turn a critical eye to my own less-than-stellar state of fitness.  The man got blown up a few months ago, for Pete's sake, and spent a number of the following months totally immobilized and in excruciating pain.  He'd be perfectly justified in spending a whole lot of time sitting on the couch feeling sorry for himself and eating frosting directly out of the tub (which would probably be my reaction to such a traumatic event), but instead he's spent the time getting buns of steel.  Which, I might add, I haven't minded.  At all.

I sure as heck haven't been in any giant explosions recently.  What excuse do I have for my buns of jello?  None, I tell you. 

It's time to get up off my saggy rear and do something about it. 

~Jess