I love my Mary Jane
Article by Kami. Republished from her blog with permission.
Back in the day, Kami was a professional modern dancer. Now she’s a wife, a mom, and a public school teacher. In her free time, she uses colorful expletives to blog about the issues she faces as a working mom at The Fence.
I experienced something new today. Believe it or not, I got a runner’s high. All this time, I thought it was a load of B.S. I’ve always hated runners. Especially runners who claim to looove running, because, who could possibly looove running? Running sucks. It hurts and it’s hard and you get sweaty and your heart starts racing and if you are silly enough to do it somewhere other than on a treadmill (where at least you can watch t.v.), you are invariably running in a circle and breathing heavily, wearing absurd little shorts and an even more ridiculous tank top, or, God forbid, a jog bra with your boobs just bouncety bounce bouncing around (and not in a sexy way, people). And please don’t forget the requisite forehead sweatband or the piece de resistance: the fugly running shoes. Always the fugly running shoes. So many cute sneaks out there to choose from and these assholes pick the most unattractive footwear they can lay their hands on. Yes, I have historically dissed runners. But then — I married one. And I had to ease up. (Though mine NEVER wore jog bras, I assure you.)
Having two kids under the age of three made for a challenging last year and a half. One of the most important lessons I have learned is that me taking care of me yields positive results for all. Put another way: If Mommy is happy, the family is happy. This realization involved a complete inner over-haul on my part. I had to send my martyr complex packing. And you know, my martyr complex and I were pretty tight. Think Peter Pan and his shadow. But I gotta say that once I kicked it to the curb, it was much easier to make a commitment to myself. Step one of said commitment involved exercising. Regularly. So, I flipped on my willpower switch and committed. I’ve been going to the gym religiously three times a week for the past eleven weeks. (Do I hear applause? Or is that booing?)
Now, come on. Don’t be a hater. I work hard to find the time to squeeze it in between all the concurrent lines of my life. It’s been a pain in the butt (no pun intended) to prioritize. Kudos to those who can work out at home. Hats off to you all. I can’t do it. I need structure. I need direction. I need to be in a kid-free zone. And, apparently, I need a ripped woman yelling at me through a head-mic to “feel it burn!” I also need to feel intensely guilty about even remotely considering missing a class for this scheme to work. So far so good.
Surprisingly, I like going to the gym. I actively like it. Kind of how I like going to the dentist in terms of having alone time that’s spent constructively — killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. No, it’s not a mani/pedi or a good book and a Starbucks latte, but I find that working out makes me feel just as good. And when I said that I experienced a runner’s high (having never run in my life) upon leaving the gym this morning, I felt a distinct wave of euphoria, mixed with some dizziness (and just a touch of nausea). As far as I’m concerned, this feeling can only be attributed to the ass-kicking cardio/treadmill class I took (while simultaneously watching Ellen, by the way). Or possibly because of my period. Damn hormones.