Sadly, much like anti-aging creams or unicorns, the fat-burning powers of breast feeding are just a beautiful fantasy. Even sadder, I have spent nearly six post-partum weeks fuelling that fantasy with cake, chocolate, full-fat lattes, red wine and enough carbs to make Dr. Atkins weep in his grave.
My first clue should have been a couple of weeks ago when I tried my old Levis on "just for fun" (note: it was NOT fun) and realized they barely pulled up past my knees. The second clue was even less sneaky: my ex-masseuse (who also happens to be the truth-telling waxer, for those of you who've been reading for a while) blatently told me I'd gained weight. Hoping she had me mixed up with another client, I pointed out that I had been nine months pregnant when she'd massaged last time. Yes, she said. But now the fat was in my face and hips. It was, quite possibly, the least relaxing "Relaxation massage" of all time.
So that was last week. And although I technically should wait until Friday of this week to do much about it other than try to find reasons to go for walks that don't end in coffee and cake somewhere, today I threw caution to the wind and did my first post-pregnancy workout. It's called The Tracy Anderson Method Post-Pregnancy workout and it is designed to "awaken your muscles" and bring the skin back to the muscle. Well, after an hour of being tortured by this pert little pocket person (who apparently gained 60lb in her pregnancy... a claim I find dubious, but whatever) my abs are awake. And after nine months of napping, they are extremely grouchy.
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