Every great story has a hero and a villain. At least every great story I enjoy. The villain I’m about to paint for you is prime-evil. It makes Lord Voldemort look like a kitten. Darth Vedar? A clown. That fucking Gollum guy from Lord of the Rings? He’s about as scary as Papa Smurf compared to my nemesis.

Yeah, that’s right. I’m talking about the BOSU Ball.

I recently joined a gym. And by recently I mean 2 weeks ago. After years of making babies and having c-sections and eating each meal like it’s my last and drinking all the wine I could find, I am trying to lose some weight and get in shape.

I’ve found group classes to be my jam and I’ve been enjoying getting my sweat on. At least I was, until yesterday.

Yesterday, I finished a 30 minute Kickboxing class and because I really like the instructor, decided to stick around for her next class. Strength training. Thinking back to that moment I should have noticed the fit, toned, and trim physiques of the other people entering class. I should have realized the chick who had just parked next to me looked like a fucking supermodel in Under Armour boy-shorts and a sports bra, while I had smushed my milky-white-whale-belly into some Capri leggings and a maternity tank-top. Hindsight is a bitch. And so is that damn balance ball.

Well, the purpose of that BOSU ball is to screw with your center of gravity, because it’s a freaking squishy, round object and forces you to utilize your core muscles. My core muscles have been in sleepy la-la land for about a decade; core muscles on Quaaludes, if you will, so just looking at that thing pained me.

But that’s when the real fun started.

I’ve come to the conclusion that my class instructor probably does a night shift as a dominatrix, cause homegirl gets off on inflicting pain. As she demonstrated the technique of standing on the ball, while lifting weights and then squatting, I couldn’t help but think, “Holy shit, dear lord, please don’t let me fall off this ball.” Gravity beat out my prayers.

Then she had us lunging with one leg, while the other leg was on the ball. I don’t think anyone appreciates how difficult it is for me to walk on flat land. Trying to exercise with this crazy ball under my foot just wasn’t working. But everyone else looked like they were born with this ball attached to the bottom of their feet. Assholes.

That’s when we started with the floor work.

If I thought standing on the ball was hard, I quickly changed my tune because push ups were harder. And planking, and sit-ups. At one point I believe my entire body had just burst into flames. At the time it was a welcome idea. If I was on fire I would surely have an excuse to get out of this class.

But I didn’t fucking quit.

I was embarrassed and awkward, fat and panting, but I had done it. I had completed 30 minutes of torture. That ball is my Thunderdome.

I decided to skip the gym today, because it hurt to use the bathroom this morning.


I’ll be back.

But first, can you help me get up from this chair?


babywearing ballet

Enough is enough.

At the time of conception your body changes. It. Just. Does. There is nothing that we can do about it. As the baby grows inside you, you grow. You grow a lot. You are now someone’s house. Nobody want’s to live in 700 Sq. Feet. Why should your baby be any different? That little sucker wants to flourish. That little sucker wants it all, and he takes it all. Your nutrients, your energy, your brain. You give it up because you already love him. Pregnancy is your first motherly act, it’s not about you anymore. It will never be about you again. This used to be okay, this used to be the norm. Mothers everywhere accepted the fact that they would never have a pre-pregnancy form after baby. Even if you are an athlete, even if you work your ass off. Things shift when you are pregnant, and some of those things are never going to find their way back to where they started.

But then it happened.

The media started flooding us with famous women who look “fabulous” after childbirth. Kate Hudson, Kourtney Kardashian … Snooki, for fucks sake…. SNOOKI!! I mean, you gotta love her drunk swagger but homegirl didn’t look too hot before she had the baby. And now here they are, all to-die-for and non-matronly looking, making the average mom (all the rest of us) feel like sub par pieces of shit. As if being the only source of everything for another human being wasn’t a daunting enough task, now we have to look great while doing it? Ugh. I’m so aggravated I could spit out my wine. But I won’t because… wine.

So now we have entered the hamsters wheel. Round and round we go… Diet. Exercise. Beauty Products. Keratin Treatments. Green drinks. Raw Juice. Vegan. Paleo. Yoga. Weight Watchers. Jenny Craig.

I’m already exhausted just thinking about it.

After the birth of my second child I took up running. It was difficult and boring all at the same time. I was never very good at it nor did I enjoy it much. I “trained” for 8 months, ran two 5k’s (okay, I’m lying, I walked most of the second one) and I stopped running as quickly as I took it up.

At the time I choose to run because I felt that “need” to get into shape. I wanted to be a MILF. I mean, who doesn’t? With the media showing us motherly beauty at every corner I just wanted to feel skinny. I wanted to feel something other than tired and old. Running was ideal for me at the time because I couldn’t afford classes, a gym membership or a babysitter. I had to do something that I could do with my son.

What I saw today knocked me into this I-fucking-give-up laden tirade.

Babywearing Ballet.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I know some people are really into babywearing. I am not one of these people. When I wear my baby it’s because I have too, not because I want to. It’s because he’s crying and fussy. He needs to be soothed and I only have 2 damn hands (and 2 other kids).

Yes, I need to get back in shape. I know it. It’s time. I’m big, and fat, and looked better when I was pregnant. I like food and booze way too much to do nothing. And no, carrying around my 19 pound 5-month-old doesn’t count as exercise. I wish it did.

I’m just slack-jawed over babywearing ballet. If a mom has the financial means to pay for an exercise class, lets just stop now into shaming her to involve her baby. Jesus, can’t Mom just have one damn hour to herself? 60 little minutes? Just an hour where you drop the kid in the daycare at the gym to go do your thing? Now we have to strap our baby to our chest because, “G-d forbid”, we do one thing that’s just for us?

I do have some mom friends that are in STELLAR shape. Amazing, beautiful, mind-blowing shape. They exercise and have a huge amount of discipline and time to look this way, but none of them are 5 months post-pregnancy. Their kids are school aged and they use that time to their advantage. I could be like that in 3 years. {wishful thinking}

I’m troubled that the “bring-along-your-baby” fitness trend is the ultimate mom brainwash. Why would you pay $100 a month if it doesn’t include childcare? I won’t. I refuse. It’s batshitcrazy. We are told we need to look fit and young but we can’t have anytime to get it done on our own. “Here you go, look like a million bucks with a $20 budget.” That, my friends, is impossible. These famous new moms look like a million bucks because that’s what the going cost of beauty is nowadays.

I know what I can get for $20.

Tacos. I can get tacos.