There’s an old wives tale that goes something like this: If a woman is radiant and glowing during pregnancy, she’s having a boy. However, if the pregnant woman looks haggard, and her appearance fades, she’s pregnant with a girl… as girls are said to steal their mother’s beauty. (Little snots.) Well, wouldn’t you know it? Delilah Georgie is a girl.
At some point close to the end of my pregnancy, I stopped trying to wear pants. It’s not that they were too small per se (okay, it was also that) – it’s just that my body became such an uncomfortable, swollen, sweaty place to be that I couldn’t be adding denim (or another other un-breathable material) to the mix. And that trend continued until I decided to suck it up and hit Target last week in search of some not-disgusting looking bottoms that fit me and weren’t meant for the gym. I mean…I do have to go to meetings dressed like a human on occasion. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t buy the big pants in the size I would need to accommodate my enormous bottom. So, I opted for a new pair of maternity pants instead. [Here’s where I remind you that I’m nearly 4 mos postpartum, and then calmly blow my own face off.]
But this little trip to Target, which was my second unsuccessful pants-finding mission inside of a month, forced me to face the music: I promised myself that when I finish the tub of Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookie Ice Cream (Limited Edition) currently in the freezer it will be my last, and I will stop stuffing my face and get serious about getting my body back. And then I did something crazy…
I took Dee to our first Mommy and Me Yoga Class. (And, y’know… also my first post-baby attempt at doing anything more strenuous than walking.) The thing about being all huge and out of shape is that stuff that you used to be able to do no problem? It’s suddenly harder. Like it’s not bad enough that you gain all the extra weight and LOOK worse. You have to FEEL every bit of that extra weight, too. And the yoga class? It was like they’d called it “Mommy and Me” so I was fooled into bringing my daughter with me to this torture session – meaning I couldn’t wimp out, because then what kind of lesson would I be teaching her? (Although I’m not really sure that watching Mommy tie herself in knots while turning six shades of crimson and sweating like a pig for the better part of two hours was a “lesson” that needed learning, looking back on it.) It was like an hour and a half of cruel reminders of where things used to be vs. where they are now. Who’s body is this? When I got pregnant, I was in the best shape of my life, and now I have love handles that have to be squished out of the way before I can attempt (unsuccessfully) the half-bound lotus. And by the way, yoga instructor, a half-bound lotus in a “post-natal mommy and me” yoga class? ARE YOU FUCKING HIGH? Seriously, I think my ass almost fell out of my mouth. ( Is that possible? I’m genuinely concerned.) Since devolving into a shapeless mass that sits on the couch, I had forgotten how sadistic those zen yoga bitches can be. OWWWWWW. Oh, and to add insult to [potentially serious] injury, there’s nothing to remind you what a cow you are like spending ninety minutes in spandex alongside women with younger babies than yours who have already managed to get their ass back where it belongs.
Which brings me to to this:
Dear Skinny A-holes in my Yoga Class: Fuck you. (Also, do you want to be my friend? Our kids are the same age, and you guys all live in my neighborhood…)
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