Ugh. <— That is the sound I made yesterday when trying to button my jeans. I did get them buttoned, but it really wasn’t pretty.

It’s really no mystery as to why I’ve gained a few pounds: I don’t exercise and I eat like crap. Plus, I think I’ve hit the age of diminished returns.

See, when I was sixteen, I could eat whatever I wanted and never gain an ounce. If I took a thirty minute walk, I’d lose two pounds. Okay, not literally, but it seemed that way. I had the metabolism of a hummingbird.

At twenty, and pre-children, I was pretty much the same way. After Wesley was born, it took me almost a year to lose all the baby weight, after which I promptly became pregnant with Alice.  Oh, and I should mention here that both times I was pregnant, I did not gain the recommended 25-30 pounds. Oh, no, no, no.  I gained significantly more. So much more, that I’m embarrassed to put the number down in writing.

But after Alice was born, I lost the weight pretty quickly, thanks mostly to breastfeeding, I think.

Now here I am, two months since I last nursed Alice, and I hadn’t adjusted my pig-out eating habits. I’m in my mid twenties and I’ve had two kids. Diminished returns. And that’s how we come to…


I really, really, really hate shopping for jeans. I’m apparently not built in a size that jean-makers recognize, so I get that horrible gaping at the back so that everyone can see what color underwear I’m wearing. I’ve finally found jeans that don’t do that, and I really don’t want to give them up. But like I said…not pretty.

Plus, it’s not exactly eco-friendly to have to buy new pants every time you gain a few pounds.

So instead, I’m exercising. Yes, that’s right. I find it easier to work out than to shop for pants.

Today I spent a little time with Gilad. My kids found it extremely entertaining to watch me bop around the living room, throwing my hands and kicking my feet in ways that looked nothing like the leotarded ladies on my screen. (Yes, I know that leotarded isn’t a real word. Just go with me, here.)

I never could get my step-kick-hop-up to look like Gilad’s. Even his mother, who was a guest on the show for the day, was kicking my butt.

My trip to the grocery store this afternoon was especially difficult. Why is it, that after less than twenty-four hours of attempted healthy eating, I wanted to cry when I walked down the cookie aisle? Would one little bowl of ice cream really be that bad?

Of course not. One bowl of ice cream never hurt anyone. Unless you have the willpower of, well…me, then you wouldn’t just stop at one bowl. You wouldn’t be satisfied until you had decimated the entire carton. So I had to do the extremely difficult thing and just walk right on by all the chocolaty, sugary goodness in aisle five and head for the produce section.

Stupid apple. I wish you were a cookie.