For the past three months I’ve been sick as a dog. Or as pregnant as a dog. Or just plain pregnant.
For the past three months I’ve done almost nothing. I haven’t blogged. I haven’t prepared healthy meals. I certainly haven’t exercised. It’s been all I could do to cart myself from the bed to the couch and try to make sure my daughter was safe. During this time I also took on a commercial writing gig that meant I spent 2-4 hours in front of the computer every weekday afternoon. I’ve been sleeping from 8:30 pm to 7:00 am every night. And since I still wear a fitness tracker as a watch, I can tell you that I’ve been getting between 1,000 and 2,000 steps during the day, mainly due to trips to the bathroom.
If you’ve never experienced this kind of thing firsthand, just try to imagine having an epic, soul-crushing hangover every single day for a stretch of 12 consecutive weeks. Imagine how you would conduct yourself. Imagine what foods you would to eat. It’s not healthy, let me tell you. And it doesn’t feel like me.
At 14.5 weeks pregnant, I’ve crossed the infamous first trimester threshold. I do feel better. I just don’t feel, like, all the way better. I’m still nauseous and I’m still exhausted, but I am slowly pulling myself out of the slump. Rafal has started cooking more dinners, which has helped me to eat at least one healthy meal per day. Two days ago, I actually practiced yoga. And today, against all odds, I managed to go for a walk.
There’s something else that’s been going on here: what they call “spring” in the mountains. Spring in the mountains means that even halfway through the month of April, we get 9 degree mornings with 6 inches of fresh snow. It means that most days are gloomy and cold. It means that I’ve been spending days upon days upon days without exiting my house.
When we lived in Grant Village, I had a rule about this: I had to go outside every single day. And rain or shine, cold or warm, damn near every freaking day, I kept that promise. In general, I try not to let any kind of weather bring me down. I love my collection of outdoor gear, and varying weather conditions are just a good excuse for finding the best combination of clothing items.
As a principle, I try not to be a wimp about the weather. But lately, that is exactly what I’ve been.
I could blame it on pregnancy, and maybe that’s true, but if I don’t find the strength to lace up my boots, toss on a down jacket, and greet the day, this spring is going to take me down with it.
The truth is, once you’ve finally made it outdoors, 30 degrees feels perfectly fine.
I walked only one short mile today, pushing my sleepy three-year-old in the stroller, but it felt great to get my blood pumping, to watch the bison scatter, to get a close look at the frosted sage brush.
I’ve got big plans for the summer ahead, and I need to be healthy enough to see them through. My writing gig is finished, my nausea is waning, and the temperatures are reluctantly creeping upward. I’m all out of excuses.
I must go outside and walk.