Again, I'm sick.
For about three weeks now, I've been hacking my way to chiseled abs (keep an eye out for my new, patented, Kaff-ercise program, available soon at a gym near you), which would be awesome except for the fact that I'm cold and exhausted all the time, the nose is running like a faucet, and oh yes, I'm hacking up a lung for 65% of every day.
Yes, I still have to get up to look after the kids.
Yes, I still have to take care of myself (although I am accepting applications for Experienced and Attractive Sponge Bathers) (experience optional).
Yes, I still have to eat and drink water.
The last bit, it seems, is what isn't happening. The kids, sure, get a bit more horizontal parenting than usual, but they're fed, clothed, changed, and provided with toy-riffic stimulation, books and songs, all day long. I have my daily shower, which I dread, because there's that minute between getting out of my clothes and into the hot shower that is SO cold and awful.
And then there's the food.
I'm not hungry. Well, I am, but not for anything nutritious. I manage my oatmeal every morning, sometimes with half a glass of juice, but more likely with a sip of water, and then it's all I can do to sip some tea or my beloved NeoCitran (which I went without during pregnancy - such deprivation!) till lunch, at which time I'll nibble on the same stuff the kids get (healthy! not sufficient, but healthy), then lie still while they nap (but I can't sleep - turns out you need to be able to breathe to sleep), and maybe have some tea. And then dinner, followed by a bite or two of fruit, and maybe some more tea. Yep.
Chris called me "skinny" the other day.* Not fit, not muscular, not lean, but skinny. Anyone that knows me knows that I'm militantly anti-skinny. At my worst, when I had the flu for 2 weeks and lost 20 lbs (trust me, not a good look), I wore 2 sweatshirts and 2 pairs of sweatpants to the gym, so that nobody, including me, would have to be exposed to my weak, stick-like arms and twiggy little legs. Yick.
A woman at the gym made an envious comment to me when I picked up the kids the other day, and I wanted to shake her and say, "Do you think I WANT my ribs to be visible in my upper chest?" NOT a good look for anyone (Calista Flockhart, take note).
I'm trying to muster, of course. I'm trying to go to bed at a reasonable time (oops) and to proactively eat good, nutritious, health-and-muscle-restoring foods. In fact, we had a chicken alfredo pasta last night. Poor food choice, all around. I'm still working out (weekly/weakly), and have to film my Attack recertification video in a day and a half, despite my current miserable state.
Oh yes, and I'm even pastier white than usual.
And my teeth hurt.
Where was I going with all this? Oh yes: if you staple a St. Bernard with a cask of NeoCitran around its neck to your resume, hopeful Sponge-Bath Applicants, I might look at it more favourably...
(Next Morning Edit: Woo. Looks like I had a fever last night, eh? Feeling MUCH better today)
* I reminisce, sort of fondly, to the time, right before a competition, that he saw me getting into the shower and called me Golem. But at least I had muscles then!!!