It’s 2:30 p.m. on Memorial Day and I'm back home in the city, bags unpacked, a load of whites (pathetically mixed with darks) already in the wash, while I sit out on my deck, snack in tow, writing this post.
Why am I home from the beach so early on an absolutely postcard-perfect day? Because my friend Marcy, in keeping up with our commitment to living by the “Seinfeld” Guidebook to Life, wanted to beat traffic -- even at the expense of a glorious day on the beach, which is the whole reason we went to shore in the first place!
It was a nice weekend, though.
There was good weather. (We finally broke out the sunscreen, though Steph and I argued over its worth. Steph said to toss it because it was three years old. I said the expiration date was merely a suggestion. I got burned. Enough said.)
There was good food. (I'm fairly certain I ate for two ... maybe even three.)
And there was especially good people-watching from New Jersey’s Margate boardwalk. Nothing better than people watching -- unless you're the people they're watching! I was quite the sight: 27 weeks pregnant, stuffed into a bathing suit, wild curly hair flopping around, chasing down poorly tossed Frisbees all afternoon. Clearly I have no shame.
Our beach routine is as follows: Gym, Starbucks, breakfast, beach. The gym is mandatory, as we attempt to make a dent in the caloric damage we usually do the night before (every meal is finished off with ice cream, and toppings, on a cone -- with a must-have bite of everyone else's ice cream, and their toppings, and their cones).
Four of us went to a spin class, all of us pretty avid spinners. I've been spinning for more than 10 years, teaching for at least three, so I knew that despite being pregnant, this was going to be an easy, fun little workout.
I was sadly mistaken.
First of all, I'm fairly certain the bike seat was made out of concrete, so I think I broke my butt. It was 80 degrees outside and, interestingly enough, 80 degrees inside, so I'm fairly certain I got heatstroke. The instructor, an adorable guy in perfect shape, mistook the volume for the nob that makes that insanely-awful sonic-boom SCREEEECH sound. I’m now practically deaf in my left ear. The music was too low, so my OCD could only pick up the one bike in the class with a wheel that wasn't oiled and I heard that squeaky sound the entire 60-minute class.
On top of all of that, I'm not in the shape I was in before getting pregnant. And so for the first time in a long while, I was humbled by the athleticism around me. Where I used to be able to finish a 60-minute spin class in 48 minutes (one of my Lucille Ball comments), now here I was praying for mercy at minute 48.
So our gregarious group of four included me, Steph, our friend Marcy and our other friend Marcy. (I know. What are the chances of two Marcys in our group of four?) The three of them sailed through the class with ease and grace. I, on the other hand, limped to the finish, seeing stars, and hearing voices.
But truth be told, the class, despite its difficulty, was good for me. I learned two lessons:
One: If life gets too comfortable, and you're no longer challenged in a way that will help you grow into a better person, it's time to change. If a 3-mile run isn't an incredible workout any more, go longer. If 10 pull-ups is suddenly doable, do 11. And if a 60 minute spin class is a no-brainer, get pregnant, go visit friends at the Jersey Shore, sit in the front row of a spin class and try to keep up with everyone.
And two: I need to take it down a notch. This baby is the most important thing in my world right now and I have to make sure she's in as healthy an environment as possible, which means no more 80-degree spin classes and certainly no more concrete spin seats.
Thirteen more weeks to go until this baby girl is ready to see the world. Thirteen more weeks until my life changes as I know it, until my vocabulary changes from spinning to spitting, from dead-lifts to diapers, and from burpies to bedtimes. Thirteen more weeks.
It's both an eternity ... and right around the corner.