Once I get my exercise clothes and my tennis shoes on, I actually enjoy exercising. Of course, I have to convince myself of this every day (for, at the time, it's easier to believe that I like sitting under the covers in bed and reading a book much more than becoming a clammy out-of-breath disaster), but it's worth it. Thankfully, I have been able to be fairly consistent with exercising since the discover of the Wee Munchkin. Walking when the weather is nice, walking with Leslie (and Clara) on dreary cold days, doing a really funky salsa routine with FitMama and, most recently, going back to Jazzercise three times a week.
The hardest thing for me is to keep from going "all out." When I'm exercising, I like to give it my all and push harder and harder and...frankly, I can't do that right now. Jazzercise was a little frustrating last night because I had to modify so many of the routines to be low-impact that it was getting boring and stupid (or maybe I was just crabby...it was Monday, after all). At the same time, I sometimes worry that I might mess something up when I exercise, or eat (like eating tuna on the wrong day and the Baby showing up without any ears, or something), or look in the mirror funny. That's being melodramatic, but possessing an active imagination can easily lead to undue worry. God's truly in loving control. So, I keep trusting and resting and living and exercising and eating.
In other news, we go to our first of three "Birthing Classes" at the hospital tonight. I wish that I lived in a town with 50 million people so that I could be anonymous for once. Or, in a city like that, someone would surely be offering Bradley Method classes. Oh well. Steve says I'm doing well with being married in the place where I grew up.