I don’t know about you, but a good part of my day I am sleepy and dragging my feet……. hold up.
Start over.
I don’t know about you, but 99% of all of my days I am alive, I am sleepy and dragging my feet. I kind of move in slow motion and have delayed responses as if I was intoxicated or accidently stepped onto a tranquilizer gun. I didn’t get the full hit, but enough to make me groggy.
But once 8:30 pm rolls around, I magically come alive. After bedtime routines cease, and all the terrorists of the house are snuggled under their blankets in their bed chambers, moms and dads everywhere rejoice.
I personally am lit up with an energy only a fellow parent could understand. I hear angels singing hymns, I suddenly am no longer tired, and my brain almost explodes due to how many ideas rush into my head all at once. I’m going to clean the kitchen, I’m going to workout HARD – bye bye mom-ass, I’m going to finish laundry, a bath sounds heavenly, I need to finish that craft I started in June, I wanted to see that new movie that’s rated R and has bad words, maybe I should make cookies, I’m pretty sure Walking Dead premiers tonight, let’s dance party, wanna make-out?
I don’t know what to do with myself. So many options. Usually I stand there in front of my husband, staring blankly ahead, weighing the pros and cons of each activity before I decide on the fate of my evening.
Naturally, trying to choose a night time activity mentally wears me out, so I usually settle with TV. Showering is too much effort and boring, doing dishes is stupid, and making out just sounds exhausting and messy. So Mad Men reruns on Netflix it is. Even when I don’t have a good show waiting patiently for viewing on my DVR, I will watch anything just for the sake of staying up. I become a toddler, denying bedtime.
I won’t go to sleep! I WILL stay up! Because the minute I go to sleep, my mommy-time is over. Nope, I’m staying up, I say. I will binge watch anything for the sake of not sleeping away my sweet freedom.
However, sometimes I feel extremely guilty due to my food choices I had made that day (Or I spot a new dimple on my left ass cheek while staring at myself nude in the mirror. Or something) so I decide to go upstairs for an intense workout. Mama needs to sweat. LET’S DO THIS. I pump myself up. I take a water bottle, a sweat towel, a glass of chocolate milk…. all my gear comes with me and upstairs to the treadmill I go.
To the conveyor belt of pain, death and all things torturous.
I hate her.
I stare at her. I don’t want to do this, but I need to in order to look good in order to be internally healthy.
I find myself turning on the TV that hangs on the wall in front of my treadmill in hopes that it will distract me and make me forget that I am engaging in the worst activity of all mankind, running.
It never works.
In fact, it does more harm than good, Usually, I get sucked into some stupid serial killer documentary, get annoyed by the pounding sound of my flapping feet and asthmatic breaths, and stop running. I couldn’t hear the TV, so what’s the point of watching if running is distracting me? So now, I’m no longer running, I still have the ass dimple, I’m sweaty, pissed and have to rewind this show to understand why this stranger hid in the basement and killed this innocent elderly housekeeper.
It’s actually quite stressful all said and done. I don’t know why I continue to do it to myself. I consider myself a pretty realistic person, so why can’t I give myself a realistic pep-talk?
“Jenn, look at me down here (my ass is talking to me, not my subconscious like you were probably thinking). Look at me when I’m pep-talking to you. You and I both know that you won’t run. The minute you feel any bit of discomfort you will stop and run to the nearest cookie for comfort. Stop wasting your time. Why can’t you just take up yoga? That’s what’s cool now anyways. Yoga clothes are super cute, come in fun bright colors and are acceptably slutty. You get to take pictures of yourself performing handstands anywhere you freakin’ want (mountains, deserts, parks, Target) and post them on Instagram. You say cool things like NAMASTE and crap like that, just go do yoga. You already have 17 pairs of yoga pants, it just makes more sense, girl. Quit trying to be something you’re not.”
Why can’t I just think like that? Why do I constantly try to run on that gerbil ball for humans we call the treadmill?
Sigh.
This is just one of the activities that don’t turn out the way I plan after the kiddos go down.
I decided that a video series, Nightlife of a Parent, would be appropriate to portray the realistic nightlife of parents.
This first installment is how my workout usually goes down at night. Hopefully, some of you guys can relate. If not, well then this is just a joke……
Stay tuned for our next installment of Nightlife of a Parent coming next week!
Feel free to share or copy my routine if you enjoyed this public display of parenting workout perfection.
– Until the next time this Redhead rambles.
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