Aspen Princess: Life is finally getting back to normal |

Aspen Princess: Life is finally getting back to normal

Ali Margo
Aspen Princess

So I was at yoga the other night, and I’m freaking out because I’d had Botox earlier in the day and I forgot to ask the doctor if it was OK for me to do it or not. I started to worry that it might leak into my brain on account of me being upside-down and hot at the same time, threatening to cause a seizure. What a stupid way to die.

In other words, I guess my life is pretty much back to normal.

Other things going through my mind: Now that I’ve shed the initial baby weight, I’m left with the C-section aftermath of a loose midsection that kind of flops over and makes the waist of my yoga pants roll down. I have to fold them over and just let my belly fly like I did with maternity jeans. This means having to wear those blousy tops, the ones with the jogging bra sewn inside, which is what I’ve always worn, but that’s beside the point. Everyone is so nice and keeps telling me how great I look, but what they don’t realize is that I’m really good at hiding it.

And then on Tuesday my gorgeous, skinny friend came over and was complaining to me how she’s gained 15 pounds. So now she weighs as much as I do, even though she’s 8 inches taller than I am. I did my best not to throttle her neck or grab her by the shoulders and shake her vigorously. I just nodded and smiled and absent-mindedly snacked on raw cashews.

Now that my cleanse is over, I’m pretty sure I’ve gained back the little weight I lost and then some because that’s what happens with these goddamn cleanses. As soon as you start eating again, of course you’re going to put the weight back on. Sure, it’s great to rid the body of toxins and jump-start your metabolism and blah, blah, blah. But apparently my metabolism is like an old car battery — a jump-start is only going to go so far. I’m sorry, but I just can’t find it in myself to live on grass powder mixed with water. Call me crazy, but I kind of like to chew my food. I also can’t get back on the scale because apparently we are so not friends. People say the best way to monitor your weight is, well, to monitor your weight. But after my last diet, I smashed my scale against the wall, lit it on fire and then drove over it like six times, so it’s broken.

My mom is compulsive about weighing herself. Apparently she wants to make sure that the half a Kind bar she ate for lunch didn’t make her gain any weight even though she pretty much eats the same 32 calories every single day. I’m not going to blame her for my issues, because that is just so cliche. I’ll just say she sets a wonderful example on how to take care of yourself and age gracefully, even if it’s true that when I hear the word “diet” my pupils turn red.

The good news is I am back to exercising every day, and I’d rather be compulsive about that since everyone knows calories burned means it’s OK to have a chocolate bar or two after dinner. (Haven’t you heard? Chocolate cookie-dough ice cream is a superfood.)

As soon as Ryan gets home from work, I get to go to yoga. I literally drop-kick him the baby as soon as he walks in and throw him an air kiss, and I’m out the door. What’s really unfortunate about that is The Babes’ witching hour is from 5 to 7 p.m., which means he screams at the top of his lungs and is totally inconsolable for those two hours that just so happen to coincide with hot vinyasa flow.

Just the other night I came home to find Ryan looking somewhat frantic and disheveled, standing there in the dark and swinging The Babes in his car seat to and fro like that amusement-park ride.

“Are we having some daddy gym?” I asked, trying to keep things light.

That’s when I got the whole report about how my little booboo screamed, projectile spit up all over the walls as his head spun on his shoulders and then screamed some more. Of course The Babes was sleeping peacefully (albeit practically upside-down in his car seat) and looking like the same perfect little angel I’d left behind two hours ago, so it was kind of hard to imagine.

“Do you want me to put him down?” I asked, being very careful to use an even tone. I could see the bull had been let out of the pen and there was some serious nostril flare going on — time to tiptoe through the tulips.

“I need to take a quick shower and get this baby puke out of my hair,” Ryan said, gently setting the car seat down and backing away from it very slowly, like it might be rigged with explosives. I can see that the kid is down for the count, but I don’t say anything. The witching hour is the witching hour. I mean, the baby can’t be perfect 24 hours a day, right?

And yes, I did have Botox because I am done breast-feeding. I did it for at least 15 minutes, and I’m pretty sure his head isn’t going to fall off. So you don’t need to call the boobie police, because the last time I checked, my kid was still breathing and so am I. Can you say, “Sleeps through the night”? My mantra: happy mommy, happy baby.

And now, thanks to that magical little vial of eternal youth, I’m back to looking fine again, too — at least from the neck up.

The Aspen Princess has an infected hangnail and is freaking out because her finger looks like it might need to be amputated. Email your love to