Beached whale

Six weeks of pregnancy left. That feels like a lifetime from now. I’m not necessarily dying to go through the pain of childbirth, but being not pregnant sounds excellent right now. I am nearing the 200 lbs mark. I never knew how uncomfortable being large was. And now, I know painfully well. It is terrible. Now let me preface this by saying this is all my own fault. I’m not blaming pregnancy for my largeness. It is definitely a factor, but I certainly didn’t take any measures to avoid the snowball affect.

This pregnancy, I have eaten at least 50 peanut buster parfaits from Dairy Queen. I used to be a rather active person, but this time around I can count on one hand the times I’ve worked out. I lead a very inactive life – the height of my cardio being walking up the stairs or bending down to tie my shoes. And now my body is penalizing me for treating it like a stationary garbage truck.

I feel lethargic all the time. For some reason, not working out makes you more exhausted than if you had. Which doesn’t make sense because it seems like all your energy should be still inside your body for you. Eating shit all the time doesn’t help, that’s for sure. My body is revolting – it doesn’t want me to get off the couch or bend down or climb stairs. It just wants to stay put and not move. And because I’m so tired, I don’t want to fight it.

I know what I need – a healthy diet, plenty of water, and light exercise to ease my way back into normal activity. But I have six weeks of pregnancy left. What’s the use of starting now? No one likes a quitter. But seriously, after Holden is born, I’m keeping a food journal, I’m working out, and I’m easing up on the LeMars donuts and blended coffees. This is no way to live. I now know what people on the Biggest Loser meant when they said they wanted to be able to run after their kids. I can’t even do that anymore!