I normally don't make New Year's resolutions. There's nothing that I want to change about myself that I put off doing or need some sort of arbitrary date to say "hey, NOW I'm going to do That Thing I Said I'd Do But Don't."
For the things I've needed to do, most of the time they came with their own deadline that was WAY more scary than some New Year's promise to myself.
But this [last] year was different.
This [last] year I spent the twilight months whining about the little pokey belly I have left over from pregnancy. It's little. It's pokey. It pokes out like I'm three months pregnant. And I'm not. I'm SO NOT. So, I'm WAY over it. Everything else about my post-pregnant body I'm totally cool with.
150 lbs (68.6 kg)? Sure.
Balloons for boobs? Both inflated and sometimes not so inflated? Sure.
Stretch marks? Whatever.
1,001 new let's-call-them-beauty-marks-and-not-moles-'kay? Fine.
Thighs to finally go with women's shorts/jeans/trousers? Oh, hell yes, thank you pregnancy!
Hips? Hey! Whoot! HIPS!! Hip hip hooray!
From the front I look like a normal woman. Heck, from the back I look like a normal woman (hello sexy butt!)! But then I turn sideways and it's all, wait, what is that? It's like I'm carrying the keg they normally hang around the neck of a St. Bernard around my waist under my shirt.
And it throws off EVERYTHING. Pants have to be big enough to go around it or low cut enough to go under it. The problem with low cut pants is plumber butt AND the waist band then acts like an underwire bra for my belly, pushing it up and out. Oh, if only men were turned on by stomach cleavage. Shirts have to be loose enough to not accentuate the belly, but shouldn't look like I'm wearing a tent. I'm still wearing a handful of maternity shirts, only a few of them I had to quit wearing because they were too tight. How messed up is that? And sweaters... well, I can't button up a single cardigan without looking like I'm going to fire off a button at some poor unsuspecting bystander.
So the belly had to go.
But when do you start something like that? If I lived in Hollywood, the answer would be "30 seconds after popping out the child" but I'm a normal gal with a normal aversion to exercise, so obviously I put it off because I needed the extra fat for lactation. Obviously.
Roll in the New Year.
"Aha!" thought I, "I will begin my exercise program as a New Year's Resolution! I will begin to work on the belly and I will not stop until it is gone or I can button a cardigan! Whichever comes first because I HATE sit-ups."
I googled a bunch of exercises aimed at toning my core (as if I'm some apple or pear and not, as I believe myself to be, an avocado). I commandeered a blanket to use as my mat. I began my exercises on January 1st and successfully did 30 kegels, 30 scrunches (or whatever you call those half sit-ups, because I'm not strong enough to do proper sit-ups) and 10 leg lifts.
I did not get a "high" from working out, as some people breathlessly tell you. "Oh, I just love a good workout!" they gush "The endorphins from 30 minutes of rapid movement is just SO FANTASTIC!"
I have never felt a rush from working out. Frankly, I think people who do are just suffering from a lack of oxygen during their exercises. That's not endorphins, you fools, it's brain cells dying at a rapid rate because you aren't breathing enough!
But anyway, there I was, doing my bit to lose a belly.
And it was all going swimmingly until yesterday when I was picking up some groceries and felt a *pop* followed by waves a pain throughout my chest. I'd dislocated a rib.
Probably because my new chest muscles are just that ripping.
Or possibly because the cough I'd developed over the last few days was nice chest rattler and every cough threatened to dislodge a lung. Maybe it loosened a rib instead.
Or maybe my body was all "exercise if for assholes" and decided to do something about it.
I don't know. All I know is that I can't lift much, bend over much, or breath deeply.
So much for my exercise regime.
So much for my New Year's Resolution.