All the Horrible Girliness

He's five weeks old today. It's an annoying stage. He's in a growth spurt, so I'm feeling like an Arco that sells gas for .99 cents a gallon. Demand never ends. I swear there's no reason to wear a shirt. Plus, he's not all that interactive; he sleeps, he eats, he shits, and he bitches, and that's about it. Plus, I've taught him some bad habits, like falling asleep while he eats, and falling asleep on my lap or chest, and not sleeping in his bed, so now breaking him of these habits is going to take all kinds of energy that I don't have. Most of the time, I just give up.

There is just an overwhelming lot of stuff to do. Before I had him, I would force myself to get stuff done before noon, then I'd spend this blissful afternoon in a clean apartment with the bills paid and the tank full of gas. If he'd just give me an hour straight, I might be able to do something, but probably not. I am so knocked out that I don't remember most of my nights. Last night, I woke at 3:30 I think. I was in the living room and the bug was on my lap. The last thing I remembered was going to bed at midnight. I have no idea when he woke the second time, if he ate, how I got out there. It's damn surreal.

Then I go out to the store with him in the stroller, feeling good to be out and actually showered and dressed, and halfway there I realize my arm is still out of my shirt strap from the last feeding and maybe that's why people have been staring.

Six weeks is a kind of deadline. It's when the baby books start gently suggesting that you get your shit together, wean him off the 3 a.m. feeding, get him into his own crib, make him smile, have sex with your husband.

That last one is happening, goddammit. I don't care if the kid never smiles, but next week will be eight weeks since I've gotten some, and I'll be damned if I don't get laid.

***

I joined a new gym, which is really my old gym from when I used to live here five years ago. Bodies In Motion isn't a real boxing or kickboxing gym, not in a real sense. The classes are good if you know what you're doing, but 80% of the people in class don't. Watching them squat would make you cringe, Brendan. It's like knee injury city. Not to mention the actual bag work. The girls paw at the bag; the men flail, kind of like how your siblings might windmill toward you, saying, "I'm going to go like this, and if you get in the way, it isn't my fault." They all take themselves very seriously, with their wraps and their cheap gloves and, for some of the smaller girls, their very high kicks. The two teachers I've seen, both women, have been pretty pathetic. Their curriculum isn't bad, but they don't correct anyone, and they yell a lot, and I am willing to bet they've never fought.

There are some good teachers there. I remember them from before. They'd actually come around with the mitts at least. And there's a sad sparring class, where flat-footed guys wail on one another's headgear. When Mister Aran joins that class, there'll be hell to pay.

I'm sure real practitioners of yoga and pilates think their programs are ridiculous, too, and maybe real bike racers think that spinning is silly, so maybe I'm just being a freak. But it's gotten so I can't even feel superior, in class. I just feel sorry for everyone.

And I shouldn't kvetch. The workout is good. I've been doing alright, for having been out of the game for nine months. It took four days to recover from my first class. I was sore on the bottoms of my feet. I'd forgotten about so many muscles. And my left roundhouse, which I'd just been getting right when I got out of the game, is ass again.

***

I'm reading I'm Not The New Me by Wendy McClure. I read her website a couple years ago and laughed my ass off, and now her website sort of turned into a memoir and so I bought it. The site was about her weight loss, sort of. She's a funny broad. She's the reason I joined Weight Watchers in the first place. I would thank her, if she didn't feel so weird about getting email from strangers.

I remember being annoyed at her, because I sent her an email once. I can't remember what it said. She didn't respond. And I was nonplussed, because Tom Robbins and Chuck Palahniuk wrote me back, and they're much bigger and better than goddamn Wendy McClure. Now I think I was just being silly, simply because she is not as big as those guys, and the reason I like her is, she kind of sounds like me.

If you're interested in reading her stuff, she's here. Though, she's taken down all the good archives because of the book. Which I also recommend, but maybe only for chicks.

posted by Samus @ 9:50 AM