You know what's worse than recovering from pneumonia?
Being fat and recovering from pneumonia.
There I was, being a health-conscious Maven and working my booty off on the treadmill most every day, doing pilates every second day and dreaming of the flat abs I will never have lest I go under the knife because I've had three ten pound babies. I craved exercise like I crave sundaes. I loved it. I would watch the mayhem of Jon and Kate Plus 8 while burning some calories on an incline. I had my towel, my water and the stack of remotes needed just to watch television. I was in the zone. You know when trainers scream "Get in the zone!" ? I was there. I felt it. I relished it.
Then Gutsy had to go cough all over me and give me pneumonia. He has some nerve, that kid. Doesn't he want a thinner, healthier mother? Does he want me to send him to the store in ten years for blood sugar strips? His illness got in my way. It crippled my attempts. Good thing he's cute and made me something nice for Mother's Day this year. I shall renew his lease until our Christmas gift exchange. Then we'll see.
Just over two weeks ago I was diagnosed with pneumonia. The week before that I could have had a chest x-ray showing my fluid-filled lung, but obviously I didn't have pneumonia because The Maven does not get that sick. Never. No way. Not me. Just like I never was going to have a cesarean (or two) because those are for other people who don't know how to birth properly, don't you know.
Full of myself? Perhaps just a smidgen.
I thought ten days of antibiotics would take care of business and I would be back to my old self again. I've been eying the treadmill longingly since my final dose last Wednesday. "Today's the day!" I've said every morning for a week. "As soon as Spawnling goes for a nap I will start up that treadmill and work up a good sweat!"
By the time Spawnling's nap rolls around I'm about ready to hide behind a chair in order to shield myself from the beckoning exercise equipment. I'm too tired. I'm too weak. I can do the day-to-day stuff but I can't do any more than that. I'm ready for bed by 7PM but I stay up because the television and I have a love affair that extends through prime time. I have noticed that I'll often miss the middle of Without a Trace, but as long as I see the beginning and ending I still find it quite exhilarating.
This could be what it feels like to be an eighty-five-year-old woman.
I've been told that it can take up to three months to fully recover from pneumonia. In my case, which was less serious, it can still take a month or two.
A month or two!? Don't they know I'm obese?
And therein lies the other problem. It's one thing to be a healthy weight and inactive. I know a lot of thin people who tell me how out of shape they are, all while eating an ice cream cone and burning off the calories through the digestion process alone. If I were a less rotund individual I might find my lack of energy frustrating but certainly not embarrassing.
The other night Geekster and I took the gremlins for a walk. Or, rather, they took us. "Let's race!" shouted Gutsy, who I will begrudgingly admit has made a full recovery much faster than his mother. "Come on, mom! You push Spawnling in the stroller and we'll run home."
Home was only four houses away. In a neighbourhood with half-acre lots that's probably half a block. No biggy, right? What's half a block? After checking for concealed weapons on Spawnling so as to make sure he doesn't commit a drive-by while zooming down the road, I yelled "On your mark! Get set! Go!" and took off full-tilt.
I used to run 4km (or about 2 miles) every day pre-Spawn. Then the little demon stole my life energy. I've slowly been making a return to my old, active self on the treadmill. I was doing three miles of power walking on an incline when I was bitch slapped by pneumonia. By race time it had only been three weeks since my last workout. No problem, right? What's four houses?
I stopped about ten feet from our driveway gasping for air.
Just then my sister (my very thin sister) and her boyfriend (her very thin boyfriend) pull up with coffee for Geekster and I and donut holes for the gremz. I can barely talk. I'm a fat, panting ball of sweat as I make my way over to their car.
"Hi *pant pant*! Sorry, I was *pant* running with *pant* the boys and I... *pant... I'm still recovering *gasp* from *pant* pneumonia... Normally *pant* I can run much *pant* further *gasp* than that, you know *pant* *gasp* But my lungs aren't *pant*..."
"I know" says Sisterella, who never says anything about my weight and is always incredibly supportive of me. "Here's a coffee for you".
"Tha*gasp*nk you," I reply, wiping sweat from my brow. Now that skinny people have seen me out of breath after running the length of four homes I'm highly embarrassed and feel HUGE.
The now seemingly walrus-like Maven goes inside to take her puffers. Oh, have I mentioned I'm mildly asthmatic, too? Go team Maven! I should offer myself as the poster child for the Canadian Lung Association.
It's one thing to be skinny and out of breath from running because you had pneumonia. It's another thing to be overweight and out of breath from running because you have pneumonia and some small self-esteem issues that tell you everyone thinks you're just out of shape because you eat too much fried chicken.
(Incidentally I would like to say that I never eat fried chicken, but I do eat chocolate and I am out of shape, but I also have weak lungs and I can normally kick anyone's ass in a four-house race - especially a five-year-old's. Thank you.)
((Also, no chickens were fried in the making of this post. Oh... Unless you count the picture, but I didn't take that picture. I think those are American chickens.))