Three days down, 27 to go.

Spin class on Monday, bosu challenge on Tuesday, yoga on Wed, Thurs and Friday.

My body is crying. And I feel friggin’ great about it.

I also wrote two blog posts and edited a chapter and a half of my memoir. (Editing totally counts—if it’s productive. And this was. I’m probably half an hour from having something to submit to my writing group.)

I’m eating salad instead of pizza, bananas instead of scones, drinking tea instead of latte. I’ve dispensed with sweet cravings with that weird, fake, but strangely delicious raspberry licorice they sell at the health food store and the occasional chocolate-covered almond.

A couple minor concerns have arisen:

I’ve felt some tingling in my hands during yoga and, as of last week, it had almost stopped completely. I worried for a minute that the yoga was actually exacerbating the nerve damage, but decided I can’t think about that, just have to muscle through and have faith that it will actually help the healing process in the end.

I’ve been late to two out of three classes because I was wrangling Aidan. Again, can’t worry about it. This is my life. As long as I make it to class eventually, I’m sticking with the program. Today, as I squeezed between two mats in a very crowded classroom, I mouthed, “Sorry” to the teacher.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, glancing at the number 3 stuck to my leggings. “You have a kid, right?” (Aidan was wearing the other 3 on his sleeve, as per the gym daycare’s system of matching moms to their kids.)

She gets it. Everyone does. It’s a juggle and you deal. So I’m dealing.

I figure at the rate I’m going the pain’s about subside, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. And then I’ll feel nothing but rockin’.