Mommy Diaries: Thank You Beyonce
Seeing Beyonce on the cover of GQ makes me want to end my life.
Or at least have a burger.
Having said that, its all my fault. Yes. As obvious as that may sound to you skinnies, I must say, it is a big moment for me to finally accept it. I do not like to exercise. I am not a fan of lettuce. I don’t care how unpopular that is today… juice bars and Paleo lifestylers have infiltrated our koshary* loving Cairo. And I will no longer pretend to be on board. I will definitely try to get on the right track. Till then though, please excuse me as I roll my eyes at you declaring how pizza makes you sick.
A few days ago Superdad cleared things up for me. He’s on one of his health missions and has adopted the Insanity method. Superdad has actually said what none of my skinnies have ever said. His declaration has seriously turned the dusty light bulb in my head on. I hate every minute of it but I have to do it for myself. It’s like something I owe to my body and I have to pay it back.
Well why didn’t you people say that earlier?! You hate lettuce too! Why didn’t you say so? Carbs are so totally part of the food triangle! And what the hell is quinoa? I’m not alone!
I’ve contentedly accepted my curvy (read: fat) self and I’ve taken comfort (read: eaten everything) in accepting that perhaps unlike all you boot camping/cross fitting/ Indji Solhing people out there, I just don’t like to exercise. I like to put the girls to bed then do everything else but exercise. I’d rather go out, cook, watch a show, revel in the holy trinity of Ryan’s, or even finally do some damn laundry.
But there it was. A revelation if you don’t mind me saying so. It’s normal. You people don’t like it either. Exercise is not what you look forward to and dream about. It’s something you have to do. And how you feel about it doesn’t matter, you still do it. You probably love carbs, burgers, pizza, donuts and all that good stuff. You just don’t have any of it because you love your bodies more. We aren’t infants. Our every need doesn’t have to be met. We are grown ups. Grown ups. We weigh our options. We think about repercussions. We are disciplined. I am not 18. And no amount of sobbing will take me back. I am… dare I say it… inching my way towards 30. Inching. Literally. Inches expanding left and right. And I sit back and accept it.
I get it now. And all it took was Superdad’s honesty and a conversation I had with L Boogie. It doesn’t matter how many times she tells me there’s a rumbly in my tumbly, I will not give her bubble gum.
Because it doesn’t matter if it tastes good right now, it’s not going to feel good later. Or at least it won’t make you look or feel good ever. And regardless of how good that new burger place is in Zamalek, it will never, ever, make me look like Beyonce.
*Koshary: A medley of all carbs known to man combined in one plastic container. Then drenched in garlic and vinegar.
