My marathon pants are one step away from total disintegration. And it makes me sad. The pants in question are not pants used to run a marathon. They’re the jeans that I fit into after I completed my first (and so far, only) marathon. That was almost three years ago, or more than a lifetime—my daughter’s lifetime, that is.
The pants were also my post-preggo goal pants. The ones that would confirm that I had pretty much lost all my baby weight.
When I was pregnant, I gained a whopping 55 pounds. I was so completely horrified by this number that I uttered this fact for the first time a couple of months ago, when I took a mini-vacation with good girlfriends in Southern California.
I felt strange telling them, my closest friends in the world, about the horribly large number. Fifty. Five. Pounds.
That is a lot of weight. I can assure you that I eat well (I can see all the judging “Yeah, rights” and eye-rolling now—but no matter, I know how I eat). I wasn’t eating entire boxes of sugary cereal of a dozen donuts at a time. I’m the type of person who doesn’t believe in shortcuts in the kitchen—no processed foods, no canned products other than tomatoes, no frozen meals.
When I was pregnant with P, I was eating the same home-made balanced meals that I always make, and swimming a couple of times a week (up until week 34). But the weight just coming. And coming. And coming.
Anyway, after I gave birth to P, I lost about 30 pounds in a few weeks—which would have been fantastic had I only gained the recommended 30 pounds. The remaining 25 pounds decided to stick around, laughing at me every time I looked in the mirror, and practically jeering when I dared to think about those marathon pants.
When P was born, I was only employed part time. In those early weeks, I would go for walks around the neighborhood to get fresh air and get used to moving again. I tried running, but the extra weight was making things difficult on my joints (and those running clothes frankly looked obscene on me). And to be honest, I’m the type of person who is super motivated by paying for a gym membership.
So a gym membership was the very first thing I purchased when finally landing a full-time job. The YMCA close to work (in Chinatown, San Francisco) had just undergone a multi-million dollar renovation. It was gorgeous, with a saline pool and empty locker rooms. All at fabulous Y prices.
Starting in September 2010, I started hitting the gym 3-4 times a week. I tried everything: Master swim, boot camp, spinning, Pilates, cardio kickbox. I even tried three minutes of a Zumba class before realizing that a person with zero rhythm has no business doing something that dance oriented.
I was definitely toning up and gaining muscle, but still not losing any weight. Various pants were starting to fit much better, but the marathon pants were still out of reach. I still needed an extra something, a little boost, an oomph if you will.
Finally, when A was away in New York for four months, I saw an opportunity to do something I’d never done before: a cleanse. I’m not talking about one of those crazy cayenne and lemon drink cleanses (which I am convinced will pierce a hole through your gut), but one with actual food. Namely, a combination of yogurt, almonds, spinach, raspberries, and eggs for five days. Followed by water. Lots and lots of water.
And it actually worked. I lost about ten pounds in five days, and continued to drop weight (though reverting back to a normal diet)—for a total of 18 pounds lost in a couple of months.
That was eight months ago now, and the weight has stayed off (yee haw!!). I’m only seven pounds away from my pre-preggo weight, and started fitting back into the marathon pants a few months ago.
I wore them everywhere. The office, shopping, weekend visits with friends—everywhere. And little by little, those beloved pants started fraying at the seams, getting nubbly at the bum, and practically unraveling only as your favorite pants are wont to do. Especially when the manufacturer doesn’t make the same style anymore (c’mon Gap. Really?).
I still can’t bear to throw them away, though. I cut off the bottom eight inches, and now have the fanciest pair of gardening pants on the block. I may run another marathon someday and have a new pair of “marathon pants,” but you never forget your first love.
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