After I do a Jillian Michaels workout, I always feel a lot better about myself. I stand a little taller. I wear a tank top to show off my biceps, and I want to drink a protein shake. And I usually do drink a protein shake. One with a banana added. For the potassium. The blessed potassium that will soothe and reassure my cramping, screaming muscles. I almost want to rub banana on my hip flexors sometimes, even though I know banana paste is not effective. So I opt for IcyHot, the rub of champions. And I snuggle up to Jason, smelling like menthol and methyl salicylate.
For two or three days I limp around. I sometimes make noises of pain so that people know I am working out again. Or I just whine about it a lot. After my muscles regain full range of motion and have gotten off their Charley horse, I begin to think about another date with Jillian. I know just running isn't going to give me the ripped abs I have always dreamed about. I also know that I will probably never have ripped abs ever. My combination of genetics,
And I also kind of want to stick my tongue out at the super skinny, toned girl in the back doing the "easy" version. She has awesome genes and cannot possibly have ever had children, not even one. But I jump and grunt and kick around anyways, always a step behind, my chubby, post-partum (times three, I remind myself) belly keeping its own separate rhythm. While this entirely entertaining show is going on, I catch a glimpse of myself in the window and I am immediately thankful that
a) we do not have neighbors who can see in our windows
b) I am not in a god-awful aerobics class where I am tripping on the step and being frowned at by the instructor (yes, I have had my step taken away before), and
c) there are lots of bananas in the kitchen.