When you're having the big Cinderella wedding, standing in your puffy white dress in front of God, your family, and your friends, you're amazed that it's finally happened. You've found love. You're making a lifelong commitment. This is it! So, you stand there and proclaim your vows, talking about for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, yadda yadda yadda. What I didn't realize as I pledged my undying love to my prince is this – according to an Ohio State University study of 10,000 men and women, there's going to be a lot more of me to love. The average new wife gains over 20 pounds in the first year of marriage alone! Here's the best part – major weight gain is pretty much inevitable for women who marry after age 30. If you're not a Buckeyes fan, simply Google ""women getting fat after marriage" and watch as over 133 MILLION results come back in under 0.22 seconds. There is an entire cottage industry dedicated to "post-wedding pudge" removal.
I pride myself on being able to be as cliché as the next gal, so you know that I busted a move to look my best in my wedding dress. In the 10 months leading up to my nuptials, I engaged the professional help of Trainers Dan; Jared; and Eric, not to mention that adorable supermodel at the YMCA who gave private TRX lessons to Mom, Dad, and me. In fact, I spent most of the 10 months prior to my wedding applying heat to various body parts, mainlining ibuprofen, and complaining about various aches and pains from my shoulders to my calves to my ass. I lost about 15 pounds and became slightly less weak, although no more graceful and significantly whinier as a result. I subjected myself to monthly weigh-ins and evaluations, which led to monthly lectures about my diet and nutrition, which I promptly discounted and ignored. Had I employed even the smallest bit of willpower, I wouldn't have had to work nearly so hard to get into my wedding dress.
In my seven blissful weeks of wedded bliss, I've been on a cruise ship with all-you-can-eat everything available around the clock. I've written out a zillion thank you cards. I returned to work after a two-plus week hiatus to find that I was buried under a pile of electronic mail and to-do's . . . and I have embraced carbs. Especially cake. The numbers on the scale would be jumping up if I had the nerve to step on it to assess the damage. I've made it to the gym for a total of three workouts since my wedding, and I would be lying to all of us if I said my heart was in it. Like Stella, I seem to have lost my groove. She managed to get hers back, though, so I'm maintaining optimism.
I can't help but wonder if my struggles are a signal from the universe. My first workout as a Mrs didn't go so well. I dragged myself to the gym, overcoming a very strong urge to skip the exit and drive to the nearest all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. I started bargaining with myself – out loud – in the car. "It's just a 25 minute session with your trainer. Get through that and you can go home. You can skip the cardio. It's ok." After talking myself out of egg rolls, I pulled in to the parking lot at my cut-rate, bargain (You bring your own towels here, folks. If you don't bring your own, you'll be drying yourself with toilet paper.) gym, I noticed right away that something was amiss. Specifically, 2/3 of the parking lot was missing. Since I hit the gym after work, I'm there with all the gym dolls, muscle heads, and other lazy fatties trying to work off their caloric sins, and parking is at a premium all the time. Suffice to say, the recent deconstruction of the parking lot to make way for a Goodwill store (yes, really) threw me for a loop as I couldn't find any place to park and wound up parking illegally at the Target store across the street and hoofing my big, fat, wedded ass to the gym. Strike one. I changed clothes, greeted my trainer, and started my torture session . . . er . . . workout. About five minutes into our session, my trainer informed me that he would no longer offer evening sessions but he'd be glad to continue our work together at 5:30 AM. Strike two.
Since I was finding the gym so torturous and the whole parking situation was irritating me, I decided maybe I needed to try something new, and I convinced a friend and my cousin to sign up for a barre class with me. Because the class was scheduled for Wednesday evenings, I rearranged my entire fitness schedule to accommodate this new foray into physical fitness, only to find out the day before the class was supposed to start that it was canceled due to low attendance. Strike three. I rescheduled myself for a MONDAY barre class, which in turn, has screwed up my entire summer personal training schedule and frankly, has me reaching for the chips and salsa. I would call it strike four but that's overkill, even for me.
Do I want to gain 21 pounds between now and April 26, 2014? Not particularly – because that will require me to buy new pants, and there are very few things on earth that I find more loathsome than shopping for pants. I also don't particularly want to audition personal training candidates, nor do I maintain a high degree of confidence that barre fitness won't kill me dead. I don't want to change my eating habits either, but let's face it. I'm not getting any younger and if I'm merely average, I'm doomed to gain 20 pounds in the next year. As an overachiever, I assure you – I will do more than just the average. If the average woman gains 20 pounds, I'll pack on 40 – and the fear of 40 additional pounds of me to love is the only thing getting me off the couch and out of the fridge. As we say in the exciting world of change management, I have reached a point where the pain of maintaining the status quo is greater than the ongoing pain I will feel in my muscles and joints as I work to beat the odds.
I managed to get married without being a total Bridezilla, so the last thing I want to do is become a body double for Godzilla in year one of marriage. I hope that's enough motivation to help me recommit to an exercise program. And – since I have definitely piled on some post-wedding pudge in the last seven weeks, I'm going to watch my diet and whittle my waistline so I don't need to go buy all new pants. In the next eight weeks, I am going to work with Trainers Aaron and Jared at the gym with a Goodwill building where the parking lot should be. I'm going to try barre fitness class with my brave and way more graceful and fit cousin, Jhanel. And I am going to use My Fitness Pal to log every calorie that passes my lips. My poor prince. It's going to be a long summer.
© 2013 Princess D
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