on (not) being fit

Well, Missy & Co. are doing the blogger's diet, and I'm privately plugging away on my own.  Thanks mostly to the fact that I never (ever, ever) finish a meal, I'm back into my old clothes.  Not the skinny jeans, but the regular ones, and for the moment that's good enough.  All of my old shirts are too short, though, and I can't decide if that's because styles have changed since I bought clothes (entirely possible) or if my body now requires more material to cover it than it used to.  I don't know how much I weigh, but truthfully there is no WAY I would tell you - all of you, the whole wide internet - if I did.  

So I'm no longer troubled by the number (especially since I don't know it) but I am still troubled.  I look exactly the same as I did three weeks after Silas was born, only smaller.  Everything is still ... jiggly.  It's NOT cute, and I am really grateful it's wintertime so it's a little easier to hide it.  Which means I'm going to have to - you guessed it - exercise.

Don't get me wrong, I really enjoy exercising.  Once I get into it.  Getting started is miserable.  Everything is going to be stiff and tight and way harder than it should be, because I haven't gotten my heartrate up in an embarrassingly long time (since Asher was six months old, actually).  I have a few DVD's that will work, and I always say I'm going to start running, but somehow I never do.  Something always comes up, which is to say I always make sure something comes up.  I really don't want to run, I just want a runner's body.  If only it worked that way.

So this is me, sucking it up, since I can't suck it in forever.  Wish me luck.