Imaginary summer.
I'm going to go out on a limb and assume you already know this, but nevertheless: Wow, y'all! It's 2016!
New year. Fresh start. Endless possibilities and boundless optimism.
That's how the first week of the new year feels, right? Like, this year, IT'S MY YEAR.
Although it makes no sense, that phrase. I do not own a year. A year is not mine. I share it with however many people are also alive on the planet during this year.
Fine, sure. I know that people mean IT'S THE YEAR I'M FINALLY GOING TO GET MY (stuff) TOGETHER.
Okay, that I can get on board with. Let's all get our (stuff) together this year. And how will we do that?
Uhhhh...
I know: Let's just wing it, like always, and see if things magically work out for us a little better than every. other. year. Solid plan? Yes.
Recap: first week of the year--feeling invincible! Weeks 2-52: back to normal.
Anyway.
For whatever reason, once the holidays are over and it's just cold (or it OUGHT to be cold), I start to long for summer. A warm 80 degrees, low humidity, and breezy. Tropical drinks, blue pools, sparkling beaches.
YES I KNOW THAT'S A FANTASY. In North Florida, we actually get 374 degrees and 1000% stifling, hair-frizzing humidity.
But bear with me and my delusions. This is the kind of thing I start to imagine. Please, take a moment to review my artwork ($375 and it can be yours!). Notice a total lack of other people to mess up my good time. Notice the wide smile on my face. Notice no mosquitoes, no sand gnats, no seagulls pooping on my cooler.
Okay, I should have drawn Patrick in there with me. (He's my ride-or-die, my PIC, my boo, and any other weird thing you can think of that I could say instead of "Because he's my husband and I like him.") But, though my MS Paint skills are stellar (obviously), I was getting a little tired of working on this masterpiece, so pretend he's just out of sight, bringing me a fresh fruit bowl and a Publix sub that will magically get no sand in it while I eat.
Oh, and where's my daughter?
LOLOLOLOLOL
Sorry for the outburst of laughter. What I mean to say is that my daughter doesn't do "relaxing" at this point in time. She does sweet, funny, silly, busy, crazy, and fussy, but she does not relax quietly. So we'll pretend that she's in the loving care of a family member having the time of her life while Mama's off getting her tan and drinking adult beverages. (And of course I would miss her.)
With that derailment taken care of, let's get back to the point. This time of year I start to yearn for warmer weather, which makes me imagine relaxing beaches, which makes me think, "Hm, time to start working out!"
Normally, that's exactly what I do. I recommit to healthier eating (because I'm constantly decommitting--what, like you don't?) and make sure to exercise more regularly. I plank. I curl. I lunge and squat and pulse and hold and all the other exercise stuff. Guys, I do ALL THE FANCY EXERCISE STUFF (as long as I can do it in my living room or office and it requires no fancy equipment).
That's "normally"... Perhaps you have seen a little problem I might be having right now. If not, I'll share it with you: I'M 8 FLIPPIN' MONTHS PREGNANT.
I present to you, dear reader, a conversation between my brain and my pregnant body:
Oh boy, me! It'll be scorching before we know it. Time to get some abs.
SORRY. ABS ARE DESTROYED.
But, I mean... summer will be here soon! I must do planks and oblique twists!
SORRY. ABS ARE DESTROYED AND SHALL NOT SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY UNTIL AT LEAST 2017.
It's not like having a baby ruins the figure.
YOU. SHALL. NOT. PREPARE. FOR. BATHING SUIT. IT IS NOT YOUR TIME.
Fine. The "hot now" sign is on at Krispy Kreme anyway.
The pregnant body is such a primitive neanderthal. It's like it doesn't respect the fact that I need all lose skin to tighten up, all arm and ab fat to go away, and all muscles to tone to rock hardness by, like, May. Like my body is just going to do what it's going to do and I--what? I have to "just be patient?"
Baloney.
THIS IS ALL BALONEY.
Confession time: in really really REAL life, I don't expect to be rocking a six-pack by May. Or ever (though a girl can dream). But it is frustrating to experience that yearly desire to get summer-ready when, in really really REAL life, my stomach will still be a mere mound of flesh jello slowly trying to figure out how it used to fit on my body when I hit my normal May deadline.
Come summertime, instead of this:
I'll probably be this:
I mean, it's cool. I knew what I was getting myself into. The body is a selfish B-word who refuses to listen to sound logic about self-imposed deadlines and, instead, just does "what God designed it to do"--as if my summer plans mean nothing.
See ya in June with my moo-moo and baby carrier. And beer. I will have cold beer.
Daydreams and jello and ice cold beer that's just so refreshing when it hits your lips... it's just so thirst quenching, so delicious, so... mmmm... Sorry, what?
to you and yours,
xo
New year. Fresh start. Endless possibilities and boundless optimism.
That's how the first week of the new year feels, right? Like, this year, IT'S MY YEAR.
Although it makes no sense, that phrase. I do not own a year. A year is not mine. I share it with however many people are also alive on the planet during this year.
Fine, sure. I know that people mean IT'S THE YEAR I'M FINALLY GOING TO GET MY (stuff) TOGETHER.
Okay, that I can get on board with. Let's all get our (stuff) together this year. And how will we do that?
Uhhhh...
I know: Let's just wing it, like always, and see if things magically work out for us a little better than every. other. year. Solid plan? Yes.
Recap: first week of the year--feeling invincible! Weeks 2-52: back to normal.
Anyway.
For whatever reason, once the holidays are over and it's just cold (or it OUGHT to be cold), I start to long for summer. A warm 80 degrees, low humidity, and breezy. Tropical drinks, blue pools, sparkling beaches.
 |
| This is reality... in my imagination. |
YES I KNOW THAT'S A FANTASY. In North Florida, we actually get 374 degrees and 1000% stifling, hair-frizzing humidity.
But bear with me and my delusions. This is the kind of thing I start to imagine. Please, take a moment to review my artwork ($375 and it can be yours!). Notice a total lack of other people to mess up my good time. Notice the wide smile on my face. Notice no mosquitoes, no sand gnats, no seagulls pooping on my cooler.
Okay, I should have drawn Patrick in there with me. (He's my ride-or-die, my PIC, my boo, and any other weird thing you can think of that I could say instead of "Because he's my husband and I like him.") But, though my MS Paint skills are stellar (obviously), I was getting a little tired of working on this masterpiece, so pretend he's just out of sight, bringing me a fresh fruit bowl and a Publix sub that will magically get no sand in it while I eat.
Oh, and where's my daughter?
LOLOLOLOLOL
Sorry for the outburst of laughter. What I mean to say is that my daughter doesn't do "relaxing" at this point in time. She does sweet, funny, silly, busy, crazy, and fussy, but she does not relax quietly. So we'll pretend that she's in the loving care of a family member having the time of her life while Mama's off getting her tan and drinking adult beverages. (And of course I would miss her.)
With that derailment taken care of, let's get back to the point. This time of year I start to yearn for warmer weather, which makes me imagine relaxing beaches, which makes me think, "Hm, time to start working out!"
Normally, that's exactly what I do. I recommit to healthier eating (because I'm constantly decommitting--what, like you don't?) and make sure to exercise more regularly. I plank. I curl. I lunge and squat and pulse and hold and all the other exercise stuff. Guys, I do ALL THE FANCY EXERCISE STUFF (as long as I can do it in my living room or office and it requires no fancy equipment).
That's "normally"... Perhaps you have seen a little problem I might be having right now. If not, I'll share it with you: I'M 8 FLIPPIN' MONTHS PREGNANT.
I present to you, dear reader, a conversation between my brain and my pregnant body:
Oh boy, me! It'll be scorching before we know it. Time to get some abs.
SORRY. ABS ARE DESTROYED.
But, I mean... summer will be here soon! I must do planks and oblique twists!
SORRY. ABS ARE DESTROYED AND SHALL NOT SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY UNTIL AT LEAST 2017.
It's not like having a baby ruins the figure.
YOU. SHALL. NOT. PREPARE. FOR. BATHING SUIT. IT IS NOT YOUR TIME.
Fine. The "hot now" sign is on at Krispy Kreme anyway.
The pregnant body is such a primitive neanderthal. It's like it doesn't respect the fact that I need all lose skin to tighten up, all arm and ab fat to go away, and all muscles to tone to rock hardness by, like, May. Like my body is just going to do what it's going to do and I--what? I have to "just be patient?"
Baloney.
THIS IS ALL BALONEY.
Confession time: in really really REAL life, I don't expect to be rocking a six-pack by May. Or ever (though a girl can dream). But it is frustrating to experience that yearly desire to get summer-ready when, in really really REAL life, my stomach will still be a mere mound of flesh jello slowly trying to figure out how it used to fit on my body when I hit my normal May deadline.
Come summertime, instead of this:
I'll probably be this:
I mean, it's cool. I knew what I was getting myself into. The body is a selfish B-word who refuses to listen to sound logic about self-imposed deadlines and, instead, just does "what God designed it to do"--as if my summer plans mean nothing.
See ya in June with my moo-moo and baby carrier. And beer. I will have cold beer.
Daydreams and jello and ice cold beer that's just so refreshing when it hits your lips... it's just so thirst quenching, so delicious, so... mmmm... Sorry, what?
to you and yours,
xo
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