Tony Horton is a spandex-laced devil!

It’s January, people, which means that sometime in the next 6 months, I’ll be forced to shed my chunky sweaters and baggy jeans and put on a pair of shorts and a tank top or even (God forbid!) a bathing suit. For the last ten months, I’ve been actively avoiding any type of workout because I knew that once I got back into it, there would be no more cheese dip dinners or late night Krystal runs. But, alas, with the rapid approach of my son’s first birthday, I’ve realized (reluctantly) that the baby weight grace period has come to any end, and I must get back into a less lumpy shape.

To this end, I restarted a P90X regime (if you don’t know what it is, don’t look into it; it’s intriguing at first, but then it just becomes really, really painful). I also began to watch what I eat to a point (and that point ends when we have ice cream in the house). Now, I used to be somewhat of a gym rat. I enjoyed working out and felt that my day was not complete without it. But along with my bustline and waist size (one went down, one went up…I’ll leave you to cipher out which is which), this love of exercise has changed since I’ve had a baby. In addition to a marked lack of energy for anything besides playing with blocks and cleaning up poop, I now dread the workout because I know that I have to get it done in whatever length of time my child chooses to nap for that day. Yesterday, I read a friend’s Facebook status (Hey Sally, what’s up?), and she nailed it when she said that she had x, y, and z to get done during her kids’ nap time and “the clock was ticking.” That’s exactly how I feel during my workouts...I can hear the naptime clock tick-tocking away before I even get my sneakers on. Because of this imaginary timepiece, I fast forward during the “water breaks” and, much to my heart rate’s displeasure, I have little time for warm ups and cool downs. The pressure to get it done by the time my son wakes up and starts gnawing on his crib is completely counterproductive to any endorphin high I could hope to have.

But, as all moms do, I soldier on…and on…and on…with surprisingly little results. I used to be able to do a few crunches and have at least a two-pack. Now, I work my abs until they scream (really, each one of them lets out a groan and then throws up a tiny white flag), but it doesn’t seem to make much difference. I can only assume that I have been cursed with a “mom pooch” – you know, the extra bit of somethin’ somethin’ around the midsection that you can only cover with an acid-wash denim fanny pack (another mom staple; I got mine at Penny’s if you’re looking). So, what can I do? Make a defeated return to Chili Con Queso Tuesdays? Nah; I figure if I’m gonna go down, I might as well go down fighting.