I think I've established that moving was hard. It's still hard. I don't feel like I've completely transitioned yet, and although people say I should give it two years, I wonder if two years really will make a difference. For the record, it has been eight months.
One of the many things the move brought was a lack of physical activity for me. I'm no longer spending twenty hours a week getting up and down at the library. I was semi-consistent with working out at home because our basement served as a convenient workout area. All of our exercise equipment is now in storage and inaccessible until we get a house. I can't exercise with Andrew around because he doesn't have the patience for it. Gym memberships are out. I don't really want to spend money on workout videos. Jumping of any sort is out, as we're not on a ground floor. And taking care of Andrew is a lot of work, but it is definitely not exercise.
I also hate exercising. I don't get any good feelings when I do it. None. Ever. Hence, the excuses above. They might be valid, but they are still excuses.
I have gained weight in the eight months we've been here. Most of my clothes don't fit anymore. I am physically uncomfortable. All. The. Time. I could probably deal with the extra weight if I weren't so uncomfortable. I don't know how much I've gained (the scale is in storage, too), but I gotta do something. If it's a good day, I get an hour and a half to myself during nap time. I need to put a work out in there. Then, the really hard part, I need to stick with it. Despite the lack of good feelings, the absence of that positive rush, and the fact that I've never been consistent with a workout for longer than a month. Ugh. As Nike once said, "Just do it." That's probably the only way.
