The other day my husband came home with three trophies that his mom had been keeping in storage from his youthful sports days. This was from the “old days” when you had to earn a trophy by winning, not just participating, and winning wasn’t considered “offensive”. I watched as he showed our kids the trophies; the pride of accomplishment and the fond connection to his childhood was quite evident. It made me stop to think and look around — what about me? Where’s my trophy?
I realized that after multiple moves across the country, starting over here and there, I had nothing left of my younger years. No symbol of the things I have done; no trophies or medals to prove it. That is until my eyes rested on the one thing I use everyday: my trusty Nalgene water bottle.
It’s the only thing I own that has been there for everything I have been through, every place I have gone and every adventure I have had. My youth was not idle — from rock climbing, surfing, back country snowboarding, and riding horses, to rolling down a cliff in a 4×4 truck (not my fault, I was a passenger), cross-country road trips, my wedding and honeymoon, having kids and beyond. It’s always there dangling from my finger or attached to my pack, keeping me alive, never letting me down.
You wouldn’t think that someone could grow to become fond of an inanimate and inane object like a drinking vessel, but there it is, the symbol of my life’s accomplishments. My trophy. My Nalgene water bottle. It may be a bit banged up, but its still strong and nearly indestructible (a bit like me).
I look forward to seeing what adventures in this life my Nalgene and I can get up to in the next 40 years.
Carrot cake is that odd-ball confection made with a vegetable but which we all love to eat. I frankly cannot think of another vegetable cake that I could eat, and I certainly wound’t enjoy it. The reason is simple: carrot cake is loaded with fat and sugar. And I mean LOADED. Traditional carrot cake is so calorie dense (i.e. delicious) that it’s lost any semblance of vegetable healthiness it may have once possessed. So how does one set upon inventing a carrot cake recipe that is healthier while maintaining its tasty appeal? Well friends, I think I’ve done it. I offer to you Mommy Perfect’s Healthier Carrot Cake.
We all know finding a good pair of jeans is hard. If you’re athletic, lift weights, or have sculpted legs and glutes it’s impossible to find some that fit comfortable, don’t gape or squeeze or just look bad. I almost never wear jeans anymore — only leggings, yoga pants, and running shorts, because jeans simply don’t fit me. Then I heard about this new company called Barbell Apparel who make denim jeans especially for athletes and active people. “Functional denim” is how they promote it. I was curious to try them so I ordered a pair for myself and my husband.
Upon receiving them I saw that they come in a nice cloth drawstring bag that you can re-use — it’s always fun getting a bag. They look exactly like normal jeans, but have a slight elasticity to them. They aren’t leggings with a denim pattern — they are real denim jeans, but with a bit of spandex sewn into the fabric to provide for flexion. The quality of the jeans — the stitching, fabric, color — are definitely premium. They are made in America, which is surely unusual and adds to their appeal in my opinion (almost nothing is made in America anymore).
When I first held them up in front of me, my initial thought was, “There is no way I am going to fit into those jeans.” I got the slim athletic fit jeans and they looked too small. I thought they must have sent me the wrong size. As I was trying them on for the first time, I didn’t think the slim fitting legs would even fit over my calves. To my surprise I got them all the way on and done up — they fit like a glove. They feel less like jeans and more like a second skin. There was no pinching, squeezing, binding or gaping going on anywhere, like I always have with other lesser jeans. They ride pretty low in front and it was a bit of different feeling at first, but I came to realize that it was actually better this way; no digging in when I squat. The back is high enough that it doesn’t gape at the butt crack even if you have a curvy booty.
I decided to really test these jeans out so I wore them through all my daily routines: chasing the kids, playgrounds, long walks, bike rides, house work. Then I wore them to the gym and did squats, burpees, and box jumps. Jeans are not typical attire to work out in, but these did not hinder any movement at all and didn’t become more restrictive as I worked out. To top it off they look good doing it. I can just fancy them up with a nice top and shoes and wear them on a night out.
My husband, who is also very physically active, finds it impossible to comfortably wear jeans too. He lifts weights and due to the shape of his thighs and glutes he simply cannot find jeans that fit him well. He was skeptical about these Barbell Apparel jeans, but I told him that it was designed for bodybuilders to provide movement without restricting athletic performance. He also ran them through their paces with his normal activities; this was his feedback:
Lifting weights, including full depth barbell back squats. Feedback: Great mobility; slight squeezing at the bottom of a squat, not bad and not restricting.
Coaching a youth soccer team; running around and kicking the ball with the kids. Feedback: No noticeable restriction in movement.
Boxing class. Feedback: Got some strange looks for wearing jeans, but movement and flexibility was fine.
Ran a 5k. Feedback: Comfortable.
My husband and I both love them. Flexible, comfortable, with no restriction in mobility, and they look good. We both want to get more pairs of these.
If you’re like me (or have a husband like mine) and can’t find comfortable jeans; if you need a gift for someone who squats or has a curvy booty, I recommend that you give Barbell Apparel jeans a try. They are as comfortable as you wish jeans could be.
This is NOT a paid advertisement and I have no affiliation with Barbell Apparel. I simply like the product and think that my readers might too.
As someone who hasn’t seen the scale dip below 160 in a long time, let me tell you it was not very enjoyable to read that 160 is what the average man weighed in 1950. I’m pretty sure that the average man in 1950 was a little bitch that I could beat the ever-loving shit out of, though. I am sick and tired of these damn cliches meant to make thick girls (like myself) feel better about their body types. “You’re more than a number!” I know I’m more than a number. I’m more like three numbers.
Fact is, I can kick some ass and put away some serious food, which are both activities I enjoy immensely. Yeah, I have some huge thighs, and a protruding rump, complete with a little jelly on my sides and front, and I bring the shake with them fries. Which, I don’t even eat anymore. That’s right. I stopped eating french fries. Do you think my thighs noticed? Fuck, no. They’re still huge. I’m built like a truck. I eat like a horse, because I’m constantly hungry. I crave all the food. I am not blessed with a discerning palate. I envy the picky eaters, because I wonder what it would be like to not literally contort with arousal whenever I see, smell, or even hear, food.
So to make sure I can still fit into regular-people-sized chairs, doors, and vehicles, I struck up a fancy for exercise. I go to a gym now which offers many classes at all hours of the day. The class is the same all day, but it changes from day to day. You can count on being tortured on the treadmill, on a water-rower machine, and with free weights – or your own body weight! I love it. I don’t love it. I hate it, but I love it. Whatever, the people are great and not everyone looks like Jillian Michaels. A lot of people at this gym look like Jack Black, actually. However, there are a good number of ladies who wear the apparel, and have obviously spent hours toning and maintaining their svelte shapes.
Today I took a seat on a water-rower next to one of these trim little harpies, and made a passing comment about how there was a very high probability of me pissing myself when doing the jump squats later on in this workout. She laughed, and glanced at all my rolls, dismissed me, and resumed her focus on the water-rower. It was time to dig in. We had all just finished a circuit on the treadmills and with some free weights. Now, we were to row 600 meters and do a circuit of 30 each of jump squats, squat-jacks, and squat calf raises. I reset my counter, and started rowing. I got into the music, which was a thumping rendition of some horrible pop song that had been overplayed on the radio to irritation, before it got remixed into something you’d hear at a club. I think it was, “Call Me Maybe.” Whatever. I timed my rows to the beat, and before I knew it, my 600 meters were done. Miss Trim and Perky was still rowing. Holy shit, I might beat her!
I launched into my circuit of tortuous squat jumps and of course, as I predicted, I nearly pissed myself. The consequences of being slack on my Kegels during my pregnancies. I can’t even enjoy a trampoline anymore. I finished that circuit, and even with slogging back some water and toweling my face, I was still ahead. Time to row again. This time 700 meters. I beat her again. I swallowed my smirk, and resumed the fucking squats that now stung my thighs much more viciously than before. I shook out my legs, and got back onto the rower. 800 meters. Done! Ha!
Take that, skinny bitch! I almost let those words actually escape my too-eager tongue. Instead, I did another circuit of squat jumps, jacks, and calf raises, and said nothing. I enjoyed the feeling of satisfaction that I got from knowing I was stronger in one area than that girl. I entertained the thought that maybe she’s recovering from an injury and that she just might not be on her game tonight. Too often, I was in that exact same spot. Forget that shit! I beat this skinny little twat through all the circuits and rowed an additional 500 meters after I was officially done! My legs were screaming at me, but they settled down to a dull grumble soon enough, and after I had stretched out, they had completely quieted.
I guess you can’t always tell a book by its cover. I figured this muscular, trim, energetic little bunny would out perform me, and I’m sure she thought so as well. Ha! I saw her clench her jaw every time I hit the target before she did. I bet she wondered how the hungry hippo beside her was rowing faster, and getting her circuit done more quickly when she was hauling all that jiggly padding around. I left the gym feeling quite pleased. I was, for the first time, victorious. And not for the last time, hungry.
Jessica Fletcher is a guest writer for Mommy Perfect.
