u s e y o u r h a n d s

While this adventure in pregnancy has been mostly filled with library books and doubt, it’s also notable for the fun re-emergence of myriad body issues. I lost a lot of weight several years ago and have been successful in keeping all of it off. Until now.

I have been very, very concerned about gaining weight while pregnant. Of course, I’ll need to gain some. A few pounds. But not, like, 40. Or 50. So far, I’ve gained 10. And I’m seven months pregnant. You can’t even tell that I’m pregnant at all. Not having a small (or even medium-sized frame) to begin with, I wear pregnancy like some women wear a holiday meal or a post-breakup donut binge. But I eat! I eat what I need for me plus a few hundred extra calories for Gus, which is all you really need anyway. There’s no McDonald’s in my life, although there is often an extra bit of seitan or a half-dozen clementines.

I’ve also been frequenting the gym. Not only does this outing propel me out of the house during these most inclement days, the gym also has things to watch, like Oprah, old Korean ladies stretching, and Orthodox Jewish women sporting dresses over workout pants in aerobics class. I’ve been putting in almost an hour of effort three to four times a week, just me and my podcasts. Occasionally, I will see other pregnant people there. Heavily pregnant women, using a stair climber, with looks of despair and exhaustion on their faces. I power-walk around the track and hoof it up the stair climber with aplomb.

The other day, I was having a fun gym day, feeling good and mildly superior. Look at me, pregnant person, chugging on! Look at me, pregnant person, climbing a staircase in a theoretical building! And just when I started to feel peppy, I look up and see the turquoise. It takes a second for my eyes to focus and identify the speedy turquoise blur as a matching tube top, velour pant and velour sweatshirt ensemble.

Worn by the world’s most attractive eight-months-pregnant lady.

Swinging weights in her dainty hands.

In just a few seconds, she’d rounded the corner and sped-walked out of my sight. And there I was, left with a few minutes on my stair climber, feeling grubby in an old Quiksilver t-shirt and ratty pony tail.

I did finish my whole 50 minutes, though. And at least I didn’t do it in matching velour.