Workout: 2.3-mile walk with Denali
Watch out, 30 … I’m coming after you!
Are you scared? Because you … well … shouldn’t be. I attacked my 30th birthday like any pregnant lady would … with a virgin Strawberry Colada.
Mark took me to one of my fave fancy-schmancy restaurants last night, a spot he took me to for our one-year dating anniversary a bajillion years ago. Or 4. Whatev. I’m old and can no longer count.
I looked so cute in my non-maternity Old Navy dress (size medium) that I decided to show you two photos. Not. I just thought you’d want a belly shot and I could satisfy that while blinding you with my ghostly legs.
My husband, unlike me, did look quite dashing and full of color. Especially as he perused the wine list.
Taunting me every which way, I tell you. He ordered a glass of Cabernet (of which I took a sip – YUM) and went onto debating appetizers. Crab cakes or mushrooms? Tuna, which I can’t eat, or coffee-crusted filet?
Or … how about lump crab and shrimp cocktail?
It was tasty, as was the restaurant’s famous salad bar. I loaded my (unpictured) plate with veggies, strawberries and Jelly Belly jelly beans. How could I not? I did skip the caviar and sardines.
For dinner, I had a mediocre sirloin. Mediocre because I had to ask for it medium well and then they cooked it well.
I ate half and about half of the potato. Yes, I ate a potato. Sue me. I figured Jesus would forgive me of my Lenten indiscretion for my 30th birthday.
Mark had surf and turf and was nice enough to let me try his lobster tail. Another YUM!
By the time the server asked about dessert, we were stuffed. And I was tired. It was 8 p.m. and I’m pregnant, after all. All I wanted to do was wind down with “The Amazing Race” and go to bed. Thankfully, Mark understood and drove me home.