So, there is nothing like staring through your legs at your fat ass in a wall length mirror at the end of a Zumba class, which you got roped into and are clearly not coordinated enough to do, listening to the instructor who is wearing a t-shirt that says "Hello, I love you" and has made reference to, in earnest, about three times in the class, to kick off your foray back into fitness.
I just wanted a little treadmill time but instead spent 40 minutes avoiding looking into said mirror with hopes that I wouldn't catch a glimpse of my ample bosom or my belly shaking. Ugh. It must be almost September, another kid, another attempt to gain some self-respect.
I guess when you are forced to view your own muffin top, which has supersized itself into a McMuffintop, while bouncing on a giant orange ball, you really can't talk yourself into thinking that the black on black yoga pants/t-shirt combination is working for you.
Although looking at yourself clothed in a mirror is much better than having to see your stretch-marked stomach, covered in mosquito bites (from the dinosaur park that the Ladies love, but is filled with mosquitoes who only bite me and will do it through my clothes), while trying to shove on a pair of jeans.
Ah, so it begins again, armed with my Weight Watchers mobile app and about 20 extra points for breastfeeding, I hope to drop all this baby weight and more, now if only QT would nap without being held or snuggled in his super swing, maybe I would have a chance to get out of the house.