Last Monday--the day after Easter--I stepped on the scale to see a number I hadn't seen in two years: 147. That is, roughly speaking, my pre-baby weight (on a bad day, it's true--say, peak-PMS, immediately after a Starbucks Venti Frappacino with two muffins under my belt and wearing a very clunky pair of clogs).
So why wasn't I smiling? Because I had achieved this weight only suffering the brutal purgative effects of the stomach virus, the kind that had me nailed to the toilet, clutching the trashcan and crying out for my own mommy.
I stared at this "magic" number--one I'd been longing to see, worked so hard to achieve--then shuffled back to my bed to resume the fetal position. Ultimately, I'd done it the hard way. I knew it wouldn't, couldn't last (unless I could manage to maintain this level of dehydration, an idea I entertained briefly before passing out).
The baby has stayed healthy, thank goodness, as had my husband. But this "bug," whatever it is, seems to have its fangs sunk in deep and is busily sucking the life force out of me entirely. A week later, I'm still exhausted, dizzy, nauseous...unable to eat anything that's not white and made entirely of highly processed carbs.
Suffice to say I haven't been to the gym; I've barely been able to make it up and down the stairs. Caring for Truman has been my sole form of exercise, though I can report that I'm so depleted that I'm able to get my heart rate up to target range by simply changing a diaper. Shaking up a bottle of formula requires a cool down period; I have to pep talk myself into giving the baby a bath. (My own personal hygiene is taking a holiday.)
This feels like interruption # 256 to my diet and exercise "plan." In fact, there's less plan than interruption at this point. Even thinking about it makes me feel...well, tired, dizzy, and nauseous. So I won't; I'll wait. And know that once I feel better--and I WILL feel better--I can get back to the gym, and back to the complex carbohydrates, and back to the plan. Then maybe I can get that scale down to 147 for real--or maybe even a little less (a girl can dream).
Hillari Dowdle will fit back into her favorite pants one of these
days. Check this column every week, and you will no doubt be among the
first to read all about it!