Monthly Archives: October 2012

Exercise After Illness


Common wisdom says to rest while sick. I’m really good at doing this, because as I’ve shared before, I’m a wimp when under the weather.

But what about after?

I’m recuperating, feeling pretty good, all things considered. A lingering cough that’s helping me shed the phlegm, but good. Except my appetite is still off. I figured that was why my energy flagged so easily. Yesterday, I made a concerted effort to eat well and on schedule. By 6, I was so tired, I was nearly asleep on my feet. Now, I had been chasing after a 2 year old that morning. So a little weariness was to be expected. But I went to rest my feet for a moment and fell asleep for an hour, missing dinner and bedtime prep. (Conveeeeeeenient, eh?) When I woke up, I felt better, but groggy. A workout seemed like it might clear the cobwebs, so onto the elliptical I jumped.

Surprise of all surprises, 25 minutes were clocked before my body said, “fuck this shit.”  At first, I felt good, but after a shower, nausea threw a party and invited a mild case of the wobbles. Aided by pills, I slept hard, right though my alarm this morning. This morning, my bed sings a siren song. Perhaps the workout was a bad idea. Or was it? Sweating out the bad stuff is supposed to work wonders, but be an unpleasant process.

From what I’ve heard, anyway. I’m in no way claiming I’ve actually attempted such a thing. Wimp, remember?

So my question to you is this: do you exercise while ill? If not, how long do you give yourself to recover?


Into the Light


I may not have actually been hit by a bus, but for a week and a half, I sure felt like I had been. First a gnarly flu bug bit hard, leaving me with dry heaves and butt barfs. Good times. I spent 5 days doing nothing more than taking my kids to school and picking them up. Oh and regularly declaring myself on death’s door.

I’ll be perfectly honest with you guys. I do not do sick bravely. I’m so bad that once, while I was laughing about a cartoon depicting the differences between how a man and woman get sick…

You know the one: she’s doing a million things at once, he’s all on the couch, moaning and groaning.

…my husband actually asked, “so where do you hide your dick?”


Yeah. I’m a wussy little bitch when Mr. Virus comes a’callin’. My husband is not. He actually has to be completely incapacitated before he’ll even think about calling in sick. He wanted to go back to work after his second vasectomy. (Yes, second. It’s a long story he’ll be thrilled to tell you. Just ask.) So, the bout with the flu was the opposite of fun. For everyone. But I was on the mend, getting better. Finally.

THEN, my 8 year-old came home with a cold. Not more than two hours later, I was sneezing and coughing. And once again, I was on knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door.

I can hear you screaming, “It’s just a COLD, loser! Get the fuck over your damn self!”

BUT! It was a cold on the heels of a hard flu. I was weakened. I was still having trouble eating and you guys, I couldn’t sleep for the hacking. I pee when I cough.  (Thank you, my ingrate children. I’ll pay for your therapy after you pay for my bladder reconstruction.) I was just a mess. I still had to function at some level, because kids have to get to school and I had committed to bringing dinner for 30 to one night of the teenager’s tech nights.

She was under strict instructions to remain silence, should a sudden outbreak of flu break out among cast and crew. Her drama teacher is fucking scary as hell.

There were field trips involved. Stuff had to get done. So I whined and lolled and dropped the ball on dinner many nights in a row. We had pizza 3 nights out of 5.

Last night, after a short nap, I found myself feeling better. Well enough to let my husband have some nookie, which he’s been not-so-sublety hinting for.

Seriously, man? The dark covers a LOT for you, doesn’t it? And you’ve proven yourself more than able to ignore my growing winter pelt. Good on you, mate. 

And today? I’m back.

Be Afraid.


Warning: Cussy Whining Ahead


Lately, I do not wake up in a very happy place.

No feeling like P-Diddy. No, I feel like Ass-Diddy. Who is P-Diddy’s broke, sad-sack, fat-ass cousin he hides in the Ozarks.

Yep. Play that funky banjo, y’all.

It’s not like there’s no reason for me to be sad and crabby. I’m stalled out in my weight loss (fucking plateaus), have about 10 too many “mommy” commitments (fucking drama program and asshole teenager who is refusing to learn to drive), my house is a sty (damn Facebook) and my husband is on a low-carb diet which means my cooking has had to take a radical left turn (mother-fucking mid-life crisis). Life, while not sucking per se, is a bit more challenging than it has been. I’ve tapered off my anti-depressants for a while to see if exercise and weight loss will address the depression without adding migraine headaches and the desire to drive my car off a cliff to the mix. I foolishly assumed anti-depressants might quell the self-destructive thoughts. Not so much.

But it’s hard to accomplish all I need to do, when I’m tired and my body aches like an 80 year-old. All I want to do is sleep. Even working out, which has been a high point in my day, is hard and leaves me exhausted. What the fuck? I’m on the verge of saying fuck it all and getting a box of doughnuts and a trashy novel. But experience tells me that will only make it worse.  Instead, I’m going to turn on some 80’s hair metal and clean house. We’ll see how I feel afterwards. I might even go get that doughnut. Who knows? I’ll certainly have earned it.

Welcome to my jungle, chickens.




Response to Flintland


*This is a response to a post by Flintland, a really inspirational running blog. While I’m not a runner (yet), this spoke to me. It’s been speaking to me for a few months now. I’d like to speak back.*

Hey, Fit Girl,

Yeah. You. The one lapping me repeatedly, in running gear that costs as much as my rent.


Thank-you for acknowledging my struggling. It takes every iota of determination and courage I’ve ever had to come to the track or the gym or my neighborhood and sweat in front of the thin, the accomplished, those that wear their discipline on their toned and buff sleeve. It means a lot to know that there is support running through that head. Support never occurs to me. I don’t meet your eyes, because I’m used to seeing derision. I wish everyone was as kind.

I endure ridicule as I begin this new adventure. And some of the scorn is coming from my own head. Those blaring headphones? They’re mainly to drown out the self-loathing and anger for letting myself get here. Of course, there’s some outside input as well. You probably don’t know this, but a lot people feel free to say things to an overweight person that they would never say to anyone else.

Because my weight is my fault.

But that’s okay. Every cruel remark is like gasoline. Caustic and stinking and flammable as hell. It propels me forward. It cuts through the apathy, the lassitude and the numbness. That pain is a little like the soreness of a hard workout. On my best days, I use it as fuel, not poison. On my worst days, I pretend it’s one of my best days.

Thank you for you commiseration, because having a stranger in my corner… well, it’s kind of awesome. You’ve put some positivity out into the world and I appreciate being it’s beneficiary. The cruel remarks are fuel. The kind words are balm.

I need them both.

And it’s going to take a while, but I’m really looking forward to the day when I get to lap you.

Back At It


Lately, I have been sadly lacking in inspiration. I took a little stage dive off the weight-loss wagon at Sonic and did some crowd surfing. Turns out there is pizza behind the weight-loss wagon. And donuts. And coffee with flavored creamer.

Oh yeah.

It’s a bitch to get back on with it, you know? I like eating crap. But I found a great pair of jeans, (ON CLEARANCE, BITCHES!) in my next size down, so I think it’s time to get back on it. I’d say it’s been fun, but it really hasn’t. I’m dragging. My temper is short. I have little energy. My stomach is royally pissed at me. So yeah, time to start with the good-for-me stuff again. Good news is, I haven’t gained anything back. I’ve got that going for me. Bad news is, I’ve got a nearly full bottle of peppermint patty flavored creamer. I should totally throw it out.

I’m so not throwing it out.

Worth It?


It was WEDDING WEEKEND in my neck of the woods, which meant mountains of tri-tip, potato salad, mini cheesecakes and cupcakes. I was smart. I measured each indulgence and made each one count. Because you have to occasionally let loose. The key is to make it worth it. Was the cupcake worth it? Not really. I stopped after a bite or two. Was the tri-tip worth it? Sort of. I had more than a couple bites. Was the cheesecake worth it? Oh hell yes. I had two.

Yes, I gained a pound (or two). But not during the weekend. No, I gained the weight from Monday, when stressed, exhausted and feeling like ass, I took a cupcake stand back to Roseville and stopped for lunch at Sonic, home of the weight you lost. My theory is that Sonic is actually a hub for the redistribution of all the weight lost by the millions of Americans who are dieting successfully. All that discarded mass goes to Sonic, to find a home on the asses and hips of the tens of millions of Americans who are not dieting. I was there. I wanted a bacon cheeseburger. And onion rings. And a cherry lime-ade. So I got it.

Newsflash!  It wasn’t even worth it! I didn’t finish the meal. I felt gross for the rest of the day. Ugh.

In mulling over my choices, I did find a small nugget of good news. I stopped when I was full. Let me repeat that:  I stopped when I was full. In a day of surrender, that is a victory. I did not eat to the point of discomfort. It’s a major benchmark for a binge eater. I indulged in something I really, really wanted and stopped when I’d had enough. And now, I’m reclaiming my tummy.

Today, I’m back at it. I worked out. I’m tracking. I’m drinking water. I’m being good (except for the sushi I had for lunch. OH MY GOD, so worth it.)

And I’m taking my victories where I can find them.