Now that all three kids are in school at least four hours a day, five days a week, I'm finally making use of our gym membership that the Ty-man purchased many, many, many moons ago.
Yeah, call me Chandler.
For nearly three weeks, I've been running on the treadmills and, are you ready, lifting/pushing/pulling weights.
Me. The Weakling of Woodstock, the one who rolls her eyes at the muscle-bound men and women who sweat and puff out their cheeks while watching their muscles bulge in the mirrors, is right there alongside them, making my "giving birth" face.
What, do you ask, is the "giving birth" face?
Well, it's a grimace, really. It's a combination of OhmyGodthatfrakkinghurts! and Ican'tdothatonemoretime! with a bit of WhythehellamIdoingthis?! topped off with a generous helping of DamnI'msexy!
(OK. Maybe not that last part.)
Alas, since taking a sweaty picture of myself at the gym while trying to also lift heavy weights is damned near impossible (because I'm the clumsiest person in the universe), I don't have a picture of my actual "giving birth" face. Therefore, I give you this very poor substitute: