Posted in Blogging, Brothers, Emberleigh, Holidays, Levi, Molly, Mom, Moxie, Oh, Baby!, Sisters, The Husband


Suicide has a name.

It is ‘Jillian Michaels‘.

More specifically, her 30 Day Shred.  I would have posted a picture of the DVD for you, but, quite frankly, I am tired of looking at it.

Jim and I are planning a trip to California next month.  For the 1st time in 2 years, I will be be seen by all those perfect beach models and their blond hair and no love handles.  I have not been back to visit since we moved to VA in September of 2008.  (Jim was there for 10 days in January, but that doesn’t count since he hasn’t been pregnant recently.)

In September of 2008, Jim & I drove across the country (5 days) with his friend, Scott, my brother, Dylan, & 1-year-old Levi.  I was 7 months pregnant with Emberleigh.  I had gotten pregnant with Emberleigh when Levi was a mere 5 months old, so as you can imagine, I was closely resembling a blue whale in shape at this time.  This is the image of me that all those poor, dear, perfect Californians have of me.  Fat, perpetually pregnant, seemingly lazy, and constantly hungry when I’m not dozing off.

We moved into a room in my family’s house, where we lived for about 1 year.  While living there, I gave birth to Emberleigh (ew! gross! not in the house, you sickos!) and became pregnant with Molly (ew! gross! In the house. I know, ya sickos.).  Emberleigh was a whole 7 months old.

Have you ever had one of those ‘punch balls’?  Those big, tough balloons with the handle for spiking into siblings’ faces?  If you blow it up and let the air out, they return to almost normal.  If you inflate them and leave them in this condition for a period of time, they do not return to their original size and shape as quickly.  If you do not uninflate it for an extended period of time, it may never quite regain its factory default.

The difference between me and the punch ball is that the punch ball doesn’t have to look good in a bathing suit in 3 weeks.

After Levi was born, I did kickboxing with Lauren.  She is hard-core, kick-your-butt, make-you-stick-to-your-guns, super awesome workout pal.  I lived in a mansion back then.  3000 square feet.  With a 3-car garage.  Where a bunch of us stored kickboxing bags, wraps, and gloves.  3x/week, a handful of us would beat out all our new-mom/mom-of-toddler aggression on those poor, freestanding bags.  All that accountability…  And Lauren would coach us through the moves.  And the from-hell ab routines.   We loved and hated her for this.  And I started looking good.

Apparently too good.  Ahem.  (see paragraph 5, sentence 3…)

When Emberleigh was born, we lived with the fam, so Mom & I would work out together 5-6 days every week.  We all know that working out is 100’s of times easier and less horrific when there is someone to die along with you.  We walked Carter Mountain 3 times/week or so.  We did a 30-minute Total Body workout.  We bought yoga mats and resistance bands.  We visited the elliptical regularly.  Together, we burned off the pounds and tightened the abdominals.

Again, I looked overly attractive.  (ha!  that’s a joke!)

After Molly was born, I lacked ambition.  I live in my own place now, and there are no kickboxers showing up to make me get on task.  No on is daily flaunting weight-loss in my face.  I don’t routinely have little sisters (cough, Delaynie, ahem) ranking the family members from fattest to skinniest within earshot.  It has been a bit more difficult to get back on the fitness horse, of you will…

Until Jim announced that we would be going to visit his family for 2 weeks in the hottest time of the summer, in the most plastic region of the nation.  I resembled a marshmallow.  On flabby toothpicks.  Embarrassing. So I buckled down and ordered the Shred.  I bought hand weights.  I circled the date on the calendar.  Jillian Michaels is a wolf, in sheep’s clothing, in a devil costume. Jumping jacks with hand weights and plank jacks are not what I had in mind.

I have lost some weight, but more importantly, I have dropped at least a size, and have muscles that I can actually seeeee!  I started on July1st.  It is a 30 day workout.  I have 4 days left.  I am inordinately proud of myself.  I have never in the history of ever worked out 26 days in a row.  So utterly shocked am I at my success that I have taken a day off from this endeavor to tell you.  July has 31 days.  I’m entitled to a day off.  When I have completed the workout, I will treat myself to the massage certificate that has been hanging on my fridge since Valentine’s Day (thank you, jim!).  And then I will start ‘Resistance Band Month’.  Followed by ‘Crunch Pilates Month’.  Or something like that.

I ordered a bathing suit online a few days ago.  I quake in fear at the thought of its arrival.  More traumatizing than that is the knowledge that I will be going to the beach in SoCal in a short 3 1/2 weeks.

In reality, I am not at all unhappy with the results of my 30-day experiment.  I almost feel like a new person.  I am starting to look cute in jeans again.  I have a hot little thigh muscle I haven’t seen since high school Tae Bo.  I’m no longer carrying around ‘holy bat flaps! grandma!’ (name that comedian).  My side rolls are shrinking.  Slowly, but surely.  My face looks human again.  I have super hott calves.  I will never again fit in the jeans I did before Levi.  However, I am so ok with it, that I would make the self-esteem experts die and roll over in their graves if they sat down to chat with me about it.

I have 4 days of shred left.  I have 3 weeks till take-off.  I am thinking about maybe being a tad excited.



I rock. I also paper and scissors.

2 thoughts on “Suicide

  1. when Phebe says ‘about a year’… she’s rounding down and not up. -You’re hilarious btw. (where did I rate on Delaynie’s list?)


  2. If you’re driving you better believe you’re stopping off here in Hickville. And if not, I’m making arrangements to have you, your three children, and your Jim thrown off the plane in the approximate area, and we’ll get a search party to come out and find you and bring you to my house. Okay? Okay. 🙂


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