It just dawned on me that I need exercise to be smart.
Minutes after an intense cardio kickboxing class, my brain is on fire with ideas. New business ideas, funny anecdotes I should write up, secrets behind the meaning of life. Seriously, it feels like I could solve the all world’s problems for the hour or so following a good workout.
Over the summer, I skipped working out for a week or so due to Fourth of Julying and RVing and other necessary activities, and the night before I finally carved out time to attend class, I told Tim that balloons float away once they’re blown up. Like, balloons filled with oxygen not helium. (I’m pretty sure we were arguing over whether or not our toddler son Kellan was old enough and/or would enjoy batting around balloons. Apparently I thought they’d just float away and it’d be all for nought. All the huffing and puffing and cheek-splitting and sore finger tips from teeny-slippery-knot-tying.) I was perfectly serious.
So, speaking of oxygen, clearly my brain doesn’t get any without exercise.
Which brings me to my next scary point. I’m pregnant. (Many of you are already aware of this if you’re a friend on Facebook.)
The fact that I’m pregnant isn’t what I meant to be scary. Unless you think I shouldn’t be procreating after the stories you’ve read through my blog. Touche. Fair enough.
What I meant is that, because I’m pregnant, I can no longer safely participate in my brain-clearing, super vigorous, cross-fit style, crazy-person, masochistic workouts. Instead of my Sweaty Betty sessions, I have been relegated to walking.
Walking does nothing for me. Or my brain power. And guess who likes to join me? My slow poke son.
Aww, that’s cute, though, right?
Let me paint this picture for you.
I end up shuffling along at the pace of a one-legged turtle dragging his other decrepit legs under his shell, shouting out nouns like an overgrown toddler myself.
“Dat?” “Dat!” A chubby finger points inquisitively to mailboxes, cars in driveways, squirrels, gravel in the street, whatever he spots. Used condoms, bullet shells. Kidding. We’re in the city, but not the ghetto ghetto. (If I could get some more freelance writing jobs, we might be able to move out into the ‘burbs. HIRE ME.) My role on our snail walks is to provide a name for anything and everything he sees. I’m a Toddler Tour Guide, if you will. A Toddler Tour Guide under a lot of pressure. As soon as his sausage-digit lands on something, he expects a prompt response. Or else. Blood curdling screams that make me sound like a child murderer fill the streets.
Maybe I should offer my services to other rug rats in the neighborhood for a small fee? Genius. Screw freelance copywriting.
Anyway. Suffice it to say I must find a way to enlightenment through this new exercise regime, if it can even be called an exercise regime. A way to keep the sludge moving through my grey matter so the shiny, pretty, smart stuff can filter out too.
But how? Clearly I won’t be able to come up with ideas to solve this problem without some serious cardio. Harumphhhh.