My whole life, I had been thin. (Okay, how many people have decided to stop reading my blog, after that statement) But it’s true. I was the girl who could have three helpings of spaghetti and meatballs, WITH garlic bread, and then nonchalantly rub my flat, taut stomach and ask, “What’s for dessert?” It seemed no food phased me. Now, I did have some good eating habits under my belt. I’ve never been a fan of butter. I wasn’t really into chocolate either, which really freaked out my fellow girlfriends. “Sara, what is WRONG with you?!?” I was the odd child who at the age of two, was caught eating a big bowl of leafy green salad, with all the veggie fixings. There’s a picture to prove it… somewhere…. and fruit and I have had a love affair for years. Combine that with good genes and a good metabolism, and you have yourself a skinny person.
Hate me yet?
When I was 21, I got married. Looking back, I realize that was way too young to even be thinking about marriage, let alone doing it, but I did. And guess what? A little over a year into our marriage, it all fell apart. My ex had discovered an extra curricular activity of the female persuasion, which persuaded me to leave him. Which then prompted me to let loose, have a little fun… you know, party with my friends, have all night beer fests, lots of chicken wings (can you say Hooters) and just downright not give a shit about me, or my health. It was really a downward spiral into a depression from what had happened, but I chalked it up to “living life” after having to be part of the ball and chain equation. “Living life” was starting to add a new element in my life: weight gain. It started slowly. A few pounds here. ::Guzzle, guzzle:: A few pounds there. My clothes started to fit differently, as in, they didn’t want to fit at all. The number on my jean size started to creep up. Soon I was in the double digits, and I decided it was fine. Maybe I was meant to be known as “the girl with the big ass” in my group of friends. Men didn’t seem to mind it, not one bit. So, what was the problem?
The problem was, my double digit jeans stopped fitting. One day, I couldn’t even button them up. I was living alone, paying bills and rent. How could I even afford this lifestyle? I mean, was the solution just to buy new clothes every time I went up in size? By that time, I was about 24 years of age. There was no way I could continue on this way. So, the solution was simple: working out.
I had a friend who was very into fitness. Her fiancee was a personal trainer, so he kept her in tip-top shape. He was kind enough to create a work out plan for me to follow. And it involved the evil of all evils, RUNNING. I hated running. Loathed it. There was no way I was going to get my “big ass” onto a treadmill. But, it was either that, or shell out more money on clothes that most likely wouldn’t fit a few months later. So, I hopped on. I tried to run for five minutes, and I had to stop the treadmill. I wanted to die, I truly did. I was sweating profusely. My life was flashing before my eyes. Ok, it wasn’t that severe, but it was rough. I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel with this crazy torture. How could people enjoy doing this, how could people even manage to do more than five minutes without wanting to keel over?
I stuck with it, and gradually, five minutes turned into seven. Ten. Fifteen. You get the drift. Soon I was like Forrest Gump. And something happened to me. I became hooked. Addicted. Intertwined with running. I felt this passion for running, like I’d never felt for anything else in my life. I’d heard of people with passions. I just never understood. I mean, I love writing, but I’ve never been impassioned by it. But running, was like this breath of life within me. I’d wake up in the morning, early, and go run with a marathon running friend of mine, five in the morning. There we were, the only souls awake and running before light even touched the sky, and I was enthralled.
The funny thing is, running became my gateway drug so to speak, to other things. Running opened my world to weight training, toning work outs, yoga and pilates. I started to do all of it, and again, I was in my element. I’d found my passion in life. And even after my son Benjamin was born (who is now five) I still ran. I still did it all, often incorporating him into my workouts (squat 30 pounds of kid, and tell me how your legs feel). I recently trained for the Omaha half marathon, all with having my child. He wasn’t a hinderance; he was an awesome addition.
Which brings me to this blog. Momma Rock is a nickname my sweet, kind husband Kevin has given me. He thinks I am so tough (little does he know, HA) and that I can do anything. One thing he supports me on, is someday obtaining my personal training license, so I can teach classes to other moms out there, moms who are at home right now, wanting to get into fitness, but not knowing where to start. Moms who have babies and strollers, but want others to walk with, to stay motivated. It’s not about the size you wear, or if you have a perfect body. It’s about staying healthy, as healthy as YOU can, and I want to help other moms realize that. This won’t happen for a while of course (did I forget to mention I am currently six months pregnant with my 2nd son)? But, someday, it will.
I don’t want to just focus on fitness. If I did, that would get utterly boring. I have so much more to say, trust me. This serves as an outlet for me and I welcome other comments, suggestions, conversations… but know that I might slip in a quip here and there about some work out I just did, or some new move I learned. You can do what everyone else does; either smile and nod like you are paying attention, or sigh and roll your eyes. That’s what my friends do. You might just learn something though….
you never know.