How I Know I'm Supposed to Be a Big Fat Person

I've lived in a lot of places because of the Air Force, and when I think back to all those places, what pops into my mind first and foremost is the food that I loved in each location.

Hometown: Rico's Pizzeria.

Monterey CA: Compagno's Sandwiches, every Persian food place in the San Jose area.

San Angelo TX: The Corner Stop Mexican food.

Omaha NE: Ahmad's Persian Food.

Bumblefuck England: any lamb dish in any pub, raspberry flan at the pub near my house.

Pompeii Italy: the olives for sale in the middle of the ruins? Awesome.

The exception is Augusta, GA. There is nothing good about Augusta unless you like golf. And I don't like golf. So, there is nothing good about Augusta.

Six Weeks

Jesus tap-dancing Christ!

It's already been six weeks since Camille was born. Insanity!

But this blog post isn't about Camille (WTF?!); it's about me. Because six weeks is relatively unimportant for her in regards to me recording her progress in life, but it is important in regards to my recovery from labor.

I am now officially not "postpartum" anymore, and if we don't consider the minor baby-blues freakout that I endured for the first two-ish weeks, I managed to make it out of the postpartum period without experiencing Postpartum Depression or Psychosis (Tanya, I don't need to hear any cracks from you about non-Postpartum-related psychosis, thankyouverymucho).

I have my six-week checkup at the doc's tomorrow, and I'm sure it's going to pretty much be him saying, "You look great, cute baby, see you next time you engage in unprotected sexytime!"

Once I get the go-ahead from him, the real pain begins. And by that, I mean it's time to start working out again.

It's not a lady; it's a man with boobies!

My workout of choice is a nice long run. Which is strange considering I have the worst knees of all time. But running makes them feel better. True story. This winter, Jake and I are also going to give Nordic skiing a whirl.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Nordic skiing, let me pose one query: are you familiar with Nordic Track?

That thing she's doing with her feet - sliding them back and forth - is basically the same movement you do with Nordic skiing. If you've gone Alpine (downhill) skiing before, you've no doubt had to traverse level ground in those skis, and you know that shuffling forward (in my case, backwards) at an agonizingly slow pace is the only way to Alpine ski on level ground. But Nordic skis allow your heel to come up, so it's easier to push your foot and the ski forward, so you don't slide backwards like I do.

Apparently, Nordic skiing is a helluva workout. And I need a helluva workout, because I'm not exactly super-sexy right now. But I will be (marginally sexy, anyway)! In March, Jake and I are taking a vacay to see my fambly in Florida, and I fully intend on hitting the beach with Camilleworm. But I used to watch the old fat pale Snowbird tourists like crazy when I was in high school, and I got grossed out when I saw them rolling up and down the beach. I still do. If you're over 80, or if your diet consists entirely of Twinkies and Big Macs, you probably don't need to be wearing a g-string bikini while in the line of sight of other humans.

Yowza.

My point, before I went on my short fat-person rant right there, was that I don't want to be one of those people who I used to get grossed out by. I'm not sure I'll be able to do much about my Steves (stretch marks, for those of you who didn't read my blog pertaining to them), but I certainly will be able to do something about my jiggles.

I went on a walk this morning with Sophie and Camille, because Sophie is such an awesome dog, and I wanted to reward her. She loves food and treats, but she loves walks even more. So a-walking we did go. Three miles. Pushing a stroller is a breeze unless it's uphill for three miles. I rewarded myself with Cadbury chocolate when I got home. Don't judge me!