Blog a la Cart

Your near 9-month old baby practices yoga, on a daily basis. Child’s pose? Check! That one where you lie on your back and hold your feet and rock from side to side? Check! Downward facing dog? A favorite. See below:

Similarly, James has been demonstrating a maddening fitness affinity. This is a a man, mind you, who gained weight right along with me during 9-months of pregnancy. I’m talking, a man who would “take one for the team” and when I was in the mood to consume four separate pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in one sitting would do so in kind. Such a thoughtful partner that he did not want his wife to be the only creature resembling a great white whale in the household (if you’ve looked at the birth photography photos, YOU KNOW WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT, chubba-chubba-chunks). This is a little thing called sympathetic pregnancy, and sympathetic he was. 40 lbs of sympathetic.  I thought that perhaps, for the first time in the history of EVER, I might lose the weight faster than him because I, ya know, pushed out 9 lbs of baby and a lot of other stuff, and then had the advantage of breastfeeding which gave me a negative 500 calorie advantage per day. Damn the speedy male metabolism! James went on nay 1 lazy jog and curbed his sugar eating habits, and BOOM! that 40lbs was gone in 2 weeks. WTF?! Meanwhile, here I am, 9 months later, down close to 50 lbs but with an abdominal area that reminds me of The Smooze (throw-back 80s reference to My Little Ponies, WHO IS ON IT?!).

Then James had to really drive home the point by declaring two and a half weeks ago that he was going to run a half marathon, yeah, in two and a half weeks. At the point of announcement, he had done ZERO training. I’m talking maybe one 4-mile run per week, and if ambitious, a hike with the baby strapped to his back. I mean, I know she is close to 20 pounds, but that does not constitute training for a marathon, even a half So I laughed, and said sure sure, and waited for some sign of effort or training to go into effect. A couple more runs were had, but again, meager. On Saturday night, I noted that James consumed a hefty bowl of carbonara, i.e. pasta, and bacon, and cheese, and cream, and egg (read: HEART ATTACK IN A BOWL) and not exactly the carbo-loading a fitness-buff might recommend. So when Sunday morning rolled around, I assumed that that silly little 13-miles would remain merely an ambition. But no. The alarm went off at 5am. James stumbled out of bed. Rolled up to Pasadena. And what did that crazy asshole do? He ran 13 miles, THE ENTIRE 13 MILES, and returned home, WALKING! As in functional! As in not a cripple tied to a wheel chair as one would assume when one DOES NOT TRAIN PROPERLY FOR A MARATHON! Motherfucker. He ran it with two of his bosses (who I might add HAD BEEN TRAINING FOR THE PAST TWO MONTHS) both of whom are limping and moaning and groaning in soreness and pain two day later. Not James, no, he’s all, I could’ve had a faster time, but I held back to hang with Bossman. I totally could’ve kept going too. I think I should do a full this summer.

I find this so incredibly maddening because I never, ever, EVER could accomplish such a feat with such little planning or effort. It would take me the full training schedule, and even then, I would be lucky to even finish with all appendages intact. I thought that James might “learn a lesson” or something from this nonsense about how we all can’t just be naturally fit and gifted, that something like this takes proper training, BUT BALLS! FOILED AGAIN!

Now I’m going to go drown my disappointment in a bowl of chocolate chips (yes, because I am too lazy to make the cookies), and maybe a plate of nachos, because I AM SO READY FOR LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND.

Damn you fit Angelenos. Damn you.