Ouchie. Oooh. Owies.
Ouch OUCH OW.
I hurt all over. I hurt in places I forgot (or never knew) I had.
Please kill me now. It would be the kindest thing to do.
Here's how this went:
On Sunday, I got a bug up my ass about getting OFF my ass.
That ass, though greatly appreciated and truly loved by Wonderhubby, has gotten progressively wider and has been joined by Fred and Ethel Backfat. No one invited those two, and I'm not gonna allow them to camp out in my mirror.
Before last December (that's 2006, people), I was at Curves for almost three years, including two years as an instructor. A fitness instructor!!!
Seriously. I worked this as a second (early-morning) job to pay for Roo-girl's bat mitzvah, and I was toned, man.
Then I messed up my back. Not the way I had previously messed up my knee (which was, ahem, from global positioning during ... um ... yeah, that). It was some sort of disk'ish problem that was kinda sorta diagnosed by a doctor, who gave me the following options for physical therapy:
2) Water aerobics
3) Walk in water.
4) Walk, period.
Notice a theme here? Yeah. So I went on a hunt for a gym with an indoor pool because swimming outside? in January? Not so much.
So I swam. I swam almost every freakin' morning at 5:15 a.m. (yes, A.M.) and then trouped over to my job at Curves to open and hang there for an hour or so, and then go to my real 40-hour-plus-a-week job. The one that pays the bills and allowed me to join a pricey club with an indoor pool.
Then Curves and I parted amicable company, and I got lazy.
After all those early, early mornings, it became too easy to lie in bed and read blogs until 8 a.m., and get up in time to jump in the shower, take Roo-girl to school before 9 and still be at work by 9:30.
And lazy + eggnog lattes = fat.
Just in case you didn't know.
I understand that fat is relative. We don't need to get into a philosophical discussion about what you consider fat and YOU consider fat and I consider fat. It's actually more about how you feel. And I feel fat.
So let us just agree to disagree. Plus I am, in actuality, heavier than I have ever been, except while pregnant, and I'm closing in on that, too.
Anyway, I have been going to a Saturday water aerobics class religiously for months (in place of multiple swim days ... one class a week + eggnog lattes = still fat).
But in a fit of -- oh, I don't know -- FATNESS? I sought out an low-impact aerobics/body sculpting class on Sunday morning.
Low-impact, my ass.
It was 45 minutes of high-energy, "you-can-do-it-honey," mind-blowing, ass-kicking jogs, jumps, slides, bounces and God-knows-what-all.
Followed by 45 minutes of weights.
I can tell you that those 5-pound thingies in my hands were not the only dumbbells in the room.
I am insane.
And I cannot move. At all.
A hot shower helped. So did 800 mg of ibuprofen -- which I reduced to 600 at a time today but am thinking that it's not enough.
Because, people! I hurt!
But I am nothing if not persevering.
I plan to be in the pool in the early moments of this fine morning.
And next Sunday, I'm going back for more torture.