I really want one of these maternity running skirts. If only maternity clothes weren't so bloody expensive. I would also like the dark-haired woman's legs and skin tone. Thank you.
A confused and grateful library patron I’ve only met once before took it upon himself to tell me how great I looked the other day. While I honestly prefer if strangers would refrain from commenting on my appearance, I accepted the compliment (smoothly, I like to think) and continued to show him how to find articles in our databases. But then: an unsure, “You’re…pregnant…right?”
Listen, world: if you aren’t certain someone’s gestating, it’s best to keep your mouth shut. This is not news. I’d be hella pissed if someone thought I was pregnant and I wasn’t. For the past few months Bob has insisted I just look like an otherwise fit woman with a beer gut. (There are a lot of them roaming the URI campus, apparently.)
I was so proud of myself on Saturday for running (and finishing!) a 5k while six months pregnant. It’s kind of kick-ass, right? Old Corrie would not have even considered it, pregnant or not. I was afraid a poorly-informed busybody might take it upon themselves to lecture me about “endangering your baby”, but I wore baggy clothes and no one did. That imaginary person can take their sanctimony straight to hell, but still I fretted.
Until very, very recently, I was just not the kind of person who believed myself capable of holding my own in an athletic event. Run a 5k – - – three miles? Impossible. I was afraid people would stare at me if I went jogging on the street, that they would silently judge me if I went to the gym. Besides, I became tired and breathless almost immediately. Perhaps I was an undiagnosed asthmatic? Exercise meant sweating and a red face and a bouncy chest and being ridiculed and NO!
In high school my youthful metabolism preserved me, but things started going downhill during my second year of college. My early twenties were the worst. I drank more, a lot more. I have a clear memory of shoveling spoonfuls of white potato salad into my mouth while standing in front of the refrigerator after an evening of binge drinking. Another time I polished off an entire box of my roommate’s Cheez-Its before passing out. My reputation for having an iron stomach was secured after eating cold, leftover fried clams (again straight from the refrigerator). Drunk dialing is embarrassing, but the effects of drunk eating linger on the hips. I always secretly believed that I could hold my own in a competitive eating situation if I ever decided to wholly let myself go.
I convinced myself that my increasing girth was inevitable, and that it was as least partially the result of being born with an unfortunate body type. Genes. Denial, it ain’t just a river in Egypt. If I looked at myself in the mirror at the right angles, I was just a little zaftig. A Varga girl! And it’s true that I will always be curvy, and never fashionably skinny. It’s harder to find clothes but I’m okay with that. We can only try and be better versions of ourselves.
I guess I’m a late bloomer – college was more awkward for me than high school. I’ve always appreciated that Bob met me when I was chubby, had braces, and was experimenting with the hippie style (which works for some people but au naturel just isn’t my best look) and liked me anyway. We didn’t date until grad school, at which point things had gotten a little better. I even lost weight before our wedding by walking on the treadmill, but I gained it all back within a few months.
My day of reckoning came while scrutinizing my reflection on the mirror. A soft, pudgy belly and buxom chest were about to meet in one blobby middle. My legs weren’t too bad, which was what allowed my denial to progress as long as it had. I looked…matronly. Thick. There was definitely a double chin. Then I got pregnant.
Six months into this pregnancy, and I’ve only just hit the weight I was entering my pregnancy with Silas. I try to never go more than a day without exercising (although it’s common and okay to violate that guideline – I’M DOING IT RIGHT NOW). I don’t want to fall off the wagon: I’ll never be fat again. Sometimes I have to force myself, other times my body is craving vigorous activity. I tell myself it’s a non-negotiable thing: our human bodies were meant to be in motion. It’s a chore – so is flossing. If I’m really not feeling it, I’ll tell myself I can stop at a mile. Then I hit a mile and figure I can go just a tiny bit further…before I know it, I’ve hit a stride.
I set a goal, and I achieved it. It makes me feel like there are many other things I can do if I only try. Motivation is a huge challenge for me.
Now I look at marathoners and part of me thinks, “I could never do that”. But a bigger part of me knows that’s not true. Progress is slow, but I keep moving forward. It’s all I can do.
