The Gym Sucked it Out of Me

Happy Monday y'all. Today is a big day in February. The Olympics are on (sadly, I'm so less-than-interested.) Yesterday was Valentine's Day. It's snowing everywhere from here to the Atlantic Ocean. That chick is most likely totally returning to The Bachelor tonight. One of my best friends found out that she is having a baby boy.

Oh, and I went back to the gym for the first time in a very long time. I'm slightly embarrassed to admit just HOW long it has been, but roughly 4 months. Since my grandmother passed away in October, strangely. I'm fairly certain that those two occurrences have absolutely nothing to do with one another, but it's a very good excuse, no? The truth is, I was burnt out. I was a total gym/workout rat all summer, leading up to my wedding. And let me just tell you, I looked damn good. Best I've ever looked, if I do say so myself. But then, my brother Eric (evil, slightly psychic man) told me to enjoy it, because I'd never look that good again. (I promise, he did not say this with any malice, just in a very matter of fact way.) And damn him if I didn't feel something sucked out of me on that very day. I was excited to eat, and to be lazy (yeah right) and to NOT get up at 6am to hit the sculpting class and treadmill before work. I'm being nice by saying I probably went twice post-wedding. I was busy, what with unpacking wedding gifts and becoming the super home-cook you see here daily. I mean, I had a fancy chef-like Cuisinart, now. What did I need with the gym when I could puree and chop to my heart's content?

Anyway, time has come. I am out of shape. J tells me I look perfect (such a good husband) but the truth is I quickly feel the fab moving to flab. Though I eat very healthy (most days) and am active, I am in no-way-shape-or-form the gorgeous armed goddess I was here. (Ok, I wasn't Michelle Obama or anything, but I liked the way I looked. A lot. Which, for a former fat-girl, is a pretty bold statement.) So this morning, I woke my behind up, in the near dark (and 7 degrees I don't mind telling you) and went to sculpting class. It was hard. My legs shook, my knees creaked, and I actually felt fantabulous.

One problem. I had several healthy meals planned for this week, tonight being a Quinoa stir-fry, and I've lost the will. I'm tired, yo. And so, I'm doing something I haven't done since starting this blog. I'm allowing J to make (I shudder just typing this) boxed mac and cheese, and I'm making something leftovery-salady. I feel pretty damn awful about it, especially since I know, and preach, how easy and quick it is to make mac and cheese from scratch. But between a full-day of "stuff" and the cold and the soreness from this morning creeping up my thighs, I've decided the "exhaustion" far outweighs the guilt.

I promise to come at you tomorrow with a wicked recipe. J has a gig, and though that generally means I spend the night eating a deliciously HUGE salad, out of the salad bowl, on the couch/in bed with today's General Hospital episode on DVR, I will cook. For you.

And before you totally jump down my throat, J eats the mac and cheese DELUXE. The sauce comes out of a packet already liquidy, ok? It's not like I'm feeding him something from powder. Jeez.