Let's pump some iron, shall we?

So, it’s been well over a year since I was last within the compounds of a gym. It’s a sad thing, I know. This weekend, I finally convinced myself that I needed to exercise. My theory about working out is that the most challenging part of keeping up with a workout regimen is first getting to the place of workout- which in most cases, is the gym. Once you get there, you have the choice of either sitting around and looking like an idiot, or doing the obvious: moving those limbs! So, that’s exactly what I did this weekend. I made my way to the gym, and I moved those lazy limbs. I really did move them! A normal person with any ounce of common sense would have taken it slow. A normal person would have realized that a year is a long time. A normal person would also have said, 'lets lift the five pound dumbbells today and slowly build my way back up to the 10, the 15, and then the 20-pounders'. Not 'me! As soon as I stepped into the weight room (following my brief stint on the treadmill), I made my way to the weight tree and reached straight for the 20 pound dumbbells (were these always this heavy?). And I thought I looked good with my 20-pounders, until I actually lifted them in an effort to work those non-existent muscles. Ouch! Ahem. I quickly scanned the room to make sure no one had witnessed my failed attempt at what should have been a swift movement of the arm, into a victorious bicep curl! I promptly decided to downgrade to a ten pound pair (yes I know, that’s downgrading by 50%. Shut up). I ended up following the same routine I used to follow a year ago, except- I cut the reps in half, the weights in half, and the movements to quick jerky jolts as opposed to slow and steady, well balanced moves. I know- it's pretty lame.

The result of a day at the gym you ask? My legs ache when I climb up the stairs, my arms scream in agony every time I lift so much as a shoulder bag, and don’t even think about telling me a joke. My stomach muscles are greatly offended every time I laugh. Damn those oblique crunches!

California, Benadryl and Delta (Part one).

All of a sudden I am reminded of a time when my husband went to California for a ten day training. I was left alone with a ten month old who was going through one of the most difficult phases of his life to date: separation anxiety. He was perpetually stuck to me. Since daddy was out of town, he had also decided that he needed to go on some sort of hunger strike to demonstrate his disapproval of his daddy being MIA (missing in action). I was lucky if I could get away for a shower break, or even a bathroom break. He screamed uncontrollably in the most annoying of all manners if I put him down for even a second. And then his baby sitter went on vacation. A sweet friend of mine volunteered to watch him while I went to work. I don’t know how I survived those ten days. They felt like ten years, if not more. In the mornings, I had to trick him into leaving him with my friend. I guess he stopped crying when he realized that mommy was indeed gone, but started crying as soon as he saw me again when I went to pick him up after work. He cried in the car, at home, and before he went to bed. And the shrieking! Oh! The shrieking! And he refused to eat a single bite. We were a picture of disaster. A shrieking baby that whined and cried and refused to eat, and an exhausted mother, worried sick about her child and stopping short of pulling out all her hair.

On the eleventh daddy-less day, I along with my ten month old were to board the wonderful Delta flight that would miraculously transport the suffering mother-son duo to California and into the waiting arms of my dear husband who would rescue both my baby and I from our distress. I had planned on shedding a bucket full of tears upon seeing my husband. I imagined him standing there Zorro-like(our savior), at the airport ready to comfort us both! He would tell us that it was okay. He would take my ten month old from me and give my arms a much needed break. And my ten month old upon seeing his daddy would ask for a giant helping of apple sauce with a side of mashed bananas and start eating again! Sigh. There were still a few hurdles to overcome before I could achieve that blissful arm resting state. My first hurdle came in the form of a bottle of Benadryl (Oh who would have even imagined!). My son’s pediatrician had advised me to give a little dose of the miracle drug to my shrieking ball of crying cuteness. She eyed him varily during the entire hour long (pre California) office visit where my son cried uncontrollably and refused to be touched by anything foreign which included a concerned pediatrician’s hand and a stethoscope. “How long has this been going on"? She asked. “What"? I asked fighting back tears of fatigue and self pity. “The crying and the refusal to eat"? asked the doctor. “Oh- after my husband left for his training...a little more than a week” I replied, willing myself not to cry. “And how are you coping with all of this"? asked the doctor. Shut up! I sighed inwardly. You are not my shrink. Leave me alone! Don’t show me any concern. I don’t do well with concern at delicate moments such as these! Don’t….and then it happened. The tears came tumbling down, in monstrous, foolish gushes. Alas! The bucket full of tears that I had been saving for my husband came out at a very awkward moment indeed! No worries. I was sure there would be plenty more tears for my husband to see! Sheesh!

On the day of departure, my aunt dropped us off at the airport and the Delta baggage crew swiftly handed me the baggage tags and went about their business. I bent over to pick up my carry-on luggage, with my ten month old still attached to my hip (I might as well have super glued him there), and still crying, as had become the norm at this point. And what did I see as I reached out for my carry-on luggage?! I saw a pink fountain of sticky, gooey substance run down my back, neck, handbag, clothes and also onto my crying ten month old! At that point, my baby started to cry even louder, although I never thought that was even remotely possible. I swung around, furiously searching for the culprit who would dare mess with a woeful mother and her crying baby! Who would play such an evil trick! I was greeted by about 20 pair of disapproving eyes directed towards …ME?! The bottle of Benadryl that I had religiously remembered to pack into my bag, as per the pediatrician’s request had somehow tipped over from over my shoulder bag, and onto me, my baby, and over everything else that I was about to carry onto the plane. A Delta baggage crew member handed me a box of Kleenex, hoping to be quickly rid of the pink, sticky, loud and messy exhibition, so he could focus on the very composed and neatly dressed elderly couple who were next in line.

Once on the plane, I had nothing to soothe my ten month old with. We were both a crazy, sticky mess and there was absolutely NO Benadryl! I also tried my ever so best to keep my sticky self and baby as far away from the poor passenger who had the misfortune to be seated next to us, as possible. And of course my son cried during the entire plane ride. I expected nothing less of him.