My Feet Hurt. And EDB is a Pig From Hell.

Continuing on my quest to become svelte, I hit the gym today after work. Unfortunately, I didn't bring my headphones, so I had to awkwardly walk in silence as everyone else jammed to their motivational tunes. While I was walking, I noticed several things about the manner in which I exercise.

1. Although every other person in the gym seemed to be able to play on their smart phone or read a book while exercising, I most definitely cannot. I tried. I failed. Miserably. For starters, I think I get a little motion-sickness when I attempt to navigate my phone and exercise. Secondly, I focus my attention on the phone instead of the exercise, and then I hear that old familiar noise of my feet dragging on the treadmill belt...you know, the noise you hear just before you lose your footing and bite the dust. (Note: Exercising = walking. I wonder if I am the person people refer to when they say, "She can't walk and chew bubble gum at the same time." I'm telling you, I'm talented, folks!)
2. Along the same lines, I also noticed today that I cannot walk in a straight line, nor can I walk and talk/look at someone next to me without nearly falling and killing myself. Jenna (my sweet friend and treadmill neighbor) probably thought I was going to wipe out at any moment.
3. I was about 3 minutes into my 30-minute workout when my feet started to hurt.
4. I am, by far, the most pathetic person in the gym.

As I type this, I am flexing my legs to stretch my "muscles" and it feels so good. I wonder what it is like to be an actual athlete? Or at least someone who can do more than a 30-minute power walk without having to write a thesis on its effects.

The boys eating carrots.

In other news...

I try to be a good mother, but I lied to my babies yesterday. (And so it begins.) I told them that carrots were "yummy in their tummies." Sorry, boys. Please forgive me. Carrots taste like dirt.

Today, my so-called-buddy, Brian, made me relive a horrible moment from childhood. The tale of Edward Dale Brewer. Because the wounds are re-opened, I might as well share this story with you:

Me as a 1st grader.

Edward Dale Brewer is a pig from hell. When I was in 1^st grade, he was an 8^th grader. He rode my bus. One summer day, I had a Snickers candy bar at recess. I didn’t finish it all, so I put it in my pocket to eat later when I got home. Well, it melted. I had chocolate all over the FRONT side of my pants. I get off the bus at my stop, and dadblamed Edward Dale Brewer sticks his ugly head out the window of the bus and hollers, “Allison pooped her pants! Allison pooped her pants!” My face turned blood red (and this was even before my rosacea flares) and I ran all the way home crying every step of the way.