When Does “Baby Weight” Become Just Fat?
An intrepid mom faces facts (and lunges… and dips...)
By Wendy Helfenbaum
As I laced up my dusty running shoes (um, it had been at least a year since they’d been dug out of the closet), my son asked what I was doing.
“Mommy’s going to Boot Camp,” I replied. There, I said it out loud. Now I really had to go.
“Do they give out Freezies there, like at my day camp?”
“I sure hope so,” I muttered, pinching the ‘muffin top’ that threatened to spill out over the waistband of the workout pants that used to fit perfectly, pre-baby.
My son is five. My ‘baby weight’ should’ve been long-gone. Time to find the time to do something about it.
So many mothers have 100 better things to do than drag themselves to a gym. I know; I’ve counted them. But enough was enough.
I got to the soccer field to meet the rest of the moms who had finally admitted to themselves that they really shouldn’t be wearing maternity-anything anymore. I was relieved to see all kinds of shapes and sizes. I waved to Andrea, the mom who organized this class, and who had signed her email invitation to join the group with a flourish: “Me and my big butt will be joining you all!”
Our trainer, who we quickly nicknamed ‘Hot Bobby,’ began setting up hurdles and cones. Hurdles!? I had an immediate flashback to sixth-grade Track and Field Day, when every hurdle clattered behind me as I vainly tried to leap over just one without breaking it.
To warm up, “all” we had to do was travel the length of the soccer field doing walking lunges. After the ninth one (yes, I was counting), my left leg felt numb. I looked around; everyone else was either complaining, or cheating. “Hey, no walking! I said lunging,” Hot Bobby called out.
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“You look a little green,” said my friend Melissa, her own face a deep shade of burgundy. Great. I’ll just be known as the mom who barfed her way through Boot Camp.
Thankfully, the feeling passed. In fact, the whole hour passed in what seemed like 10 minutes. And after that, it got easier. (Well, the urge to vomit passed, at least.)
I had to admit that I almost enjoyed the military-style workout, although that feeling waned the next morning when I couldn’t lift my arms over my head because of the dozens of push-ups and triceps dips I’d forced myself to half-do.
Two days later, incredibly, we all showed up again. This time, there was a tad less whining. I was even able to do almost as many crunches as Hot Bobby asked for.
Two weeks later, I even showed up early to do a bit of jogging before class began. Best of all, I don’t cheat anymore. Well, hardly ever.
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