…and I’m going  to the gym.

Supposedly, everyone’s “rock bottom” is different and you have to hit “it” in order to make the big life changes.

I’m not a drug addict, alcoholic or compulsive gambler. Heck, I’m not even over weight. I AM, however, out of shape. Huffing and puffing and gasping for air every time I lifted my son up onto the potty was my first red flag.  Huffing and puffing every time I lifted myself onto the potty was my second.

It’s easy to put off the gym when you’re still in a size six. Even though I swear my arms are going to fly off my shoulders when I push my sons on the swing and I’ve put a harness on my dog to help me get up off the floor… the number six on the tag in my clothes lulls me back into denial…until yesterday:

I decided to take the boys to Animal Kingdom and get them out of the house. They’re on Thanksgiving holiday, Mark was at work and the cleaning company had just waved their wands over my castle and everything was sparkling. The weather was perfect and we were having a great time. The daydreams of no one at my house, messing it up drowned out the noise of brothers fighting over a Lego guy’s gun. Waiting in line to meet Pooh, Eeyore and Tigger was pretty good. Lots of things to look at and the excitement of meeting them was passing the time. When it was our turn, I took the boys by the hand and led them over to Tigger. We all bent down and I reached out to shake Tigger’s hand. Nate gasped liked he saw a ghost. “MOMMY! Your arm turned into rubber! Why did it do that? Does it hurt? (wiggle, wiggle, wiggle)”

Right before I hit rock bottom...and punched Tigger for laughing.

So.  Yoga.  Monday.  9 AM.  Join me. I’ll be the one wearing long sleeves.

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