Two weeks ago I told myself it was over. I looked in the mirror and I pumped myself up: it's over man, the 12 months of sloth and unchecked gluttony are over. Wood, Juniper, and I walked down through the Presidio to the overwhelming sporting goods megastore they opened in the old military commissary, named the Sports Basement (despite there being nothing below ground level). In all the years I have lived in California I still haven't seen a basement, except for the one the Chinese guys live in behind our apartment, but that's really more of a windowless shack than a basement. I bought a $60 pair of running shoes, and $150 worth of running gear and apparel. I have always been a "run in the old vintage t-shirts that I became too cool to wear in non-athletic situations" kind of guy, but in the mirrors at The Sports Basement I looked like a professional runner dude who could handle all those hailstorms and 120 degree days you get in Golden Gate Park. I even bought a headband.

And understand: I am cheap. One of the secrets about why I really didn't want a doula is because those ladies are expensive! So as a part of my cheapness, when I drop a chunk of money like that on some gear, I tend to use it to make it worth the spending. I ran the San Francisco marathon four years ago, not because I wanted to get in shape or have the bragging rights, but because on a whim one day I dropped $65 on the registration fee and it would have killed me to let that go to waste by not running the race. So a few weeks ago I figured, I'll spend all kinds of money on gear, and that means I'll actually exercise now.

Wrong.

When Wood got pregnant, I took that as an excuse to eat whatever the fuck I wanted and not do a damn thing on my feet. She put on the pounds, I put on the pounds, it was all good. It wasn't sympathy weight, I'm just not a very sympathetic person. I am, however, lazy and always hungry. I started drinking beers, trying out all the Trader Joes brands with colorful labels. I tried German beers and Czech beers and beers from Oregon. Wood was falling asleep on the couch at like, 8:00 p.m., and I had nothing to do but drink. My relatively slim torso started bulking up. I started ignoring mirrors. "Things will get easier when the baby's born," I said. Ha! When we came home from the hospital a few days after Juniper was born, Wood rushed to her closet, and started trying on all her old pre-maternity clothes. They all fit. Meanwhile, I contemplated buying my shirts in "L" rather than "M." Would that hide what's happened to me? Why is that mirror there next to the shower? Jesus, who is that fat fuck? Where did I get all those chins? Even Juniper doesn't have that many chins! Why am I suddenly the fattest person in the house?

My fancy new shoes are sitting in their box. None of the clothes stink yet. They still smell fresh, like Indonesia or Pakistan or wherever they were made. Ah, the new clothes smell. I just can't bear to cover that up with the chicken soup stink of running sweat. I'm doing it for the clothes, damn it! I had grandiose plans of running the four miles home from work every day, but logistics got in the way. Logistics, and, well, Nob Hill. The truth is, I want to get back to my baby as fast as I can and when I'm with her I just want to hold her up in the air above my head while she laughs. Daylight savings time will soon be over. Those 4:30 p.m. Frisco sunsets are the best excuse in the world not to run. I'm too cheap and too scared of locker rooms to join a gym. My days to get back into shape are numbered.

But Wood, as always, will be my saving grace. Tired of the lumpy, heavy-breathing oaf that replaced her husband, she just bought a $300 jogging stroller. Man, she knows that it will KILL me to know that thing is just sitting in the garage, unused. We're going for a run tomorrow, damn it. Sat goodbye to fat daddy, baby. His days are numbered.