MILF

Last week I went in for my 6-week check-up with J.T. (my trusty OB). He told me it looked like I had healed perfectly… one of the best post-op incisions he had seen… green light to resume life as I knew it … blah blah blah.

Disappointed, I drove home knowing when I got there it would be time to face the Reaper. I hate the Reaper. But no more excuses – it’s time to get back in shape. When I got home I went to the closet and my old running shoes, who I affectionately refer to as Somebody Kill Me (left shoe) and What Just Popped (right one), were there waiting for me and begging for action under a pile of dust.

While I’m near my pre-pregnancy weight, it is distributed in a very different way than I recall. For instance, I’m pretty sure that my belly button never looked like it was being poured out of my stomach like honey from a (very lumpy) jar. And I got some serious junk in a previously empty trunk. I mean, SERIOUS junk.

I decided that Monday would be the big day that I would begin to get back in shape – let’s not rush things. The master plan included working out once a day, and eating ice cream only once a week. As a point of reference, I checked our bank statement and we had 18 Dairy Queen transactions in the month of June. As many calories as four African children eat in a year. Stop judging.

Unfortunately and despite my prayers, Monday came. I laced up the shoes and decided a jog would be a good start.

The jiggling began immediately and without apology. It was everywhere... the arms, the thighs, the butt. But the belly had borne the brunt of the pregnancy weight and together with the boobs created a perfect storm of friction, flopping and free flowing skin. My face, immediately purple and swollen, was the finishing touch into my transformation into a female John Goodman jogging through the neighborhood. Ellie clung tightly to the sides of the jogging stroller for dear life, gums chattering, eyes bulging – the bouncing was almost more than she could take.

After mile 1 there was a numbness in my inner thighs which I assumed was either an early symptom of a heart attack or the onset of horrific chafing. Either way it was not good. My lungs were on fire and it was all I could do to keep from vomiting in the street. At least I had Ellie’s burp cloth handy if things got messy. Despite my better judgement I decided to go another lap. I closed my eyes and thought of my upcoming trip to Las Vegas for motivation. Poolside… swimsuit… horrified hotel guests… mass hysteria… public humiliation… disgraced… depressed… ostracized… crawl in a spider hole and wither up and die… it was enough to get me through the last mile. Finally, after what seemed like forever, my run was over.

I peeled Ellie’s hands off of the stroller, thankful I had buckled her in. This is going to be extremely hard, but nobody ever said it was easy becoming a MILF.