Jell-O.  Such a simple delight to a small child, so wiggly and squishy.  But to a 29-year-old mother twice over, it’s not so amusing when your butt is made of it.  Today marked six weeks since I gave birth to our second daughter, Eisley, and my mandatory after-labor relaxation period is officially over, so I decided to go for a run.  I opened the door to a gorgeous, unseasonably cool morning for August, and felt that rosy-fingered Dawn was cheering me on in my endeavors to lose my baby-weight.  I began at a brisk walk.  It felt great.  My knees were unkinking, my back was loosening up, and after ten and a half months and one block, I decided to commence running.

Oh Sweet Lord, the agony…it burns, it burrrnnns!  Chest:  pounding.  Eyes:  crossing.  Ears:  ringing.  My thoughts turn to the humiliating realization of just how far I’d fallen from the size 4 days as I notice that my butt is going at a pace all of its own: about 47 gazillion jiggles per step.  As my butt bounces up, it seems that my whole body might lift off the ground and fly, but as it bounces down I feel the full force of gravity suck me into the pavement, 47 gazillion times per step.  I receive a small bit of an adrenaline spike as I focus on my hatred of a few key people:  Ben and Jerry, and Eve.

I reassess my libertarian views as I come to the conclusion that it should be totally illegal to make such blissfully enticing delectables as Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream.  Mr. Ben and Mr. Jerry look like such friendly fellows in their little picture on their pint of PURE EVIL, but really they are as sinister and conniving as your neighborhood heroin dealer.  1200 calories per pint, basically an entire DAY’S worth of food, is sitting deliciously, irresistibly in that little cardboard container with its cutesy pictures and playful fonts.  The devil does come dressed as an angel, an angel of creamy, coffee goodness.  Do not be deceived, my friends.

I’ve pondered all of this over a mere half-block of wheezing and burning sides.  At the corner, my thoughts turn to Eve and how I’d like to punch her in the throat.  If she hadn’t bought that lame-ass line about a piece of produce making her like God, we could sit around eating ice cream naked, not worried about our hideous stretch marks or sagging boobs or 35 extra pounds on the hips.  Child-bearing would last as long as a hiccup and without the hemorrhoids.

But there’s nothing I can do.  Ben and Jerry live all the way in Vermont, and Eve lives pretty far back in time.  My only vengeance is to keep running.  I may be slow, I may have to stop to walk every now and then, I may wake up with gravel in my teeth, but I will keep running.  I don’t like it when Taytem sticks food down her pants, so I shouldn’t have Jell-O in mine.  Just…(wheeze)..gotta…(gasp)…make it…(hack)….home…(complete blackness and stars)…