My old friend! Once I tricked my hubby into quitting my job you and me had to part ways for a spell. The baby weight melted off my hips and belly (those who said I was “all baby” when I was pregnant are liars. Bless your hearts.) thanks to my daughter’s healthy appetite, Jillian Michaels, and coordinated running ensembles (stroller matches the baby, matches the shoes! Genius! The only reason I was motivated to take up running.) I had all the time in the world to gaze lovingly at my sweetie, embark on an ambitious personal hygiene and maintenance routine, and enjoy the occasional mood-boosting lunch with the girls. My biggest concern was which play-group to frequent this week and whether or not I was adequately stimulating my husband intellectually now that I was out of the “real world” (obviously that last concern is a joke).
But then Weezy gained mobility and I realized that I am not really the play-group type. So I decided to go back to work. It started slow; an edible art class here, a life-skills coaching client there, but soon opportunities began to fall into my lap. Good opportunities. Opportunities that I would have killed for a year ago. So after much discussion and soul-searching, Brakes and I decided to put Weezy in daycare part time so that I could pursue some more professional interests. Honestly, it was totally the best choice to make. After the initial first day of leaving Weezy at the sitters (who is amazing BTW) and seeing how well she did, as well as getting a little bit of personal satisfaction beyond wearing matching hair-styles with my daughter, I know that we made the right decision.
Unfortunately that decision came at sort of an already stressful time. In the last six weeks I have, researched, found, and put Eloise in daycare. Started two new jobs. Bought a house, moved, and began major renovations. Battled family illness and death. And finally, made preparations for a giant triple family Christmas celebration. Most of the stuff going on has been good stuff, but even good stuff can cause stress.
Which leads me back to you, Cortisol. I feel you inhabiting the stomach fat I had worked
moderately so very hard to loose during my low-stress months. I know you are settling in for a long stay. I just wanted to give you fair-warning; don’t get too comfy in those abs of mine. Come New Years, you are banished! Do you hear me? BANISHED!!! Once the holidays are over, hard-wood floors are in, and the routine in the new house is cemented, you and I are going to seriously part ways. I’ll do my best to hold you at bay with a modicum of self-control and bargain shopping exercise until then, but lets be real; I love me some pie. And eggnog. And peanut brittle. Did I already say pie?
So consider yourself warned.
PS: Am I the only one who starts worrying about New Years resolutions at the beginning of December?
PPS: Do you like how my biggest concern about my current stress level is the evil cortisol. I seriously have a phobia. I picture little cortisol guys taking up residence in my chub, kind of like in the
Mucinex commercials. It grosses me out. When I start to feel pressure in my chest (maybe I should have that looked at?) I take deep breaths and think to myself: “Now calm down, Gas. We don’t want any cortisol lodging in your belly do we?” I think I might be a freak.