Tony Perkis is not my homeboy.

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I can’t move my legs.

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No, that’s not it.

My legs are moving all by themselves.

As in, they’re shaking.

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I can’t pee because I’m terrified I won’t be able to get up off the toilet. Nick’s going to come home to wild children and find me stuck on the porcelain throne.

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Leg day just kicked my butt.

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Once upon a time, I was fit.

In fact, I worked out with a trainer 3 days a week, not including the other 2 or 3 days I spent at the gym with the hubs or by myself. I was strong. I was toned. I could do cardio without fainting. I had a goal: get super fit and super strong so the next time I got pregnant, I’d last longer before my muscles and stamina atrophied away.

Best shape of my life.

Flash-forward 14 months: I’ve got an adorable, perfect baby, and the body of a limp sea cucumber.

I mean, it’s not Jabba the Hut over here, but there’s definitely more squish than there was before. My pencil skirts are riding a lot higher.

So, I’ve been taking my kiddos to the park a few days a week to exercise with another neighborhood mom. She’s awesome. I’m pathetic.

Today, four of us mothers worked out, one of which is a fitness instructor at local gyms and brought a game plan. A leg game plan.

I still remember the feeling when it was all over and I looked at my baby in the car seat and realized I still had to haul her up the hill to the car.

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I hurt.

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Somebody call my husband and warn him not to expect dinner tonight. I’d call but my phone’s across the room. Let’s hope there’s no zombie apocalypse in the near future. I’d be a goner.

Tomorrow is going to be worse. I can’t wait.

Remember the aforementioned pencil skirts? Or those jeans I’m trying to wear sans muffin-top? Meh.

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love,

the moaning noodle stuck to the couch.

 

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