I'm not proud of myself. Sometimes I melt down. Friday morning was one of those times.
I've been trying on and off to lose some weight since I had Madam. Depending upon various circumstances (trips to Texas, market prep, once a month hormonal chocolate ingestion, etc) it's ebbed and flowed. I went to an Aquafit class last week, and that was really fun, so I decided to do that once a week supplemented by a workout dvd I ordered that boasts a fifteen minute run time. Fifteen minutes, I thought glibly, I can manage fifteen minutes!
My rosy red rear end.
About three minutes into the workout (read, had just about managed the warmup) I had already had to stop at various points to handle the following:
- Two booger extractions from Madam's blocked nostrils
- One removal of New Kid from the kitchen due to removal of the grate under the fridge
- One removal of New Kid from the kitchen due to attempts to change the washing machine settings
- Multiple footing changes due to inadvertently having started a game of "who can go between Mom's legs the fastest"
I shouted. I swore a little. I shoved a princess DVD into the player and stormed upstairs to have a shower, informing Madam that her appearance upstairs would be met with immediate extermination. (She spent the next half hour apologising for getting in my way. Ouch.)
I'm cringing as I type this. I guess the main reason I'm sharing is so that no matter how together I seem on the outside, and I've been accused of looking like I have everything under control by more than one person, the proof is there (in writing, no less) that yours truly loses it just like everybody. Spectacularly, in this particular instance.
The moral of the story? Working out isn't always good for you. Maybe leave it until the kids start school. Or uni. Whichever.