I hate you. I really, really do. You more than anyone make me feel fat every single time I go up you. I pant like I just ran a marathon while carrying only myself after reaching the top. How is that supposed to make me feel? 6 weeks of dieting and I still can't run up you without having a blackout and reaching for an inhaler.
I get so discouraged with you that I'm actually getting lazier. I tell my kids in the afternoon to grab everything they think they'll need from upstairs, because who knows when Mom is going to have the energy to get back up them.
Once I was even tempted to tie sheets together and let my kids slide down into the living room to get that sippy cup that they left on the couch.
Start getting easier for me to climb or I'm intalling an elevator.
Love,
Brittany
PS. The only thing you're good for is stashing my laundry. Such a one trick pony.
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