"A traffic jam when you're already late" is not ironic. It would be ironic, however, if--for once in your life--you actually left the house in plenty of time to arrive early, but then (Oh God, the ass-biting irony!) ran into a traffic jam that made you late all the same.
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
15 December 2006
11 December 2006
The Shelf--Rated 'R' for 'Regrettable'
It was reminiscent of a scene from the old black & whites, the imaginary audience in my bedroom gasping, hiding their eyes, "Don't go in there!" they shrieked. But I did. Into the closet. Over to the shelf. Over to the high, high shelf on which are stacked (dum dum dum DUUUM...) my pre-pregnancy jeans.
I don't know exactly why I did it ("No occifer, I not been dinking."). Okay, yes I do. I have my 34 week appointment coming up on Thursday and I'm afraid of getting yelled at about my weight. People tell me I'm "not nearly as big" as I was with Lucas (an odd comment that sets off the internal dialogue, "Heeey, whaddya mean 'not nearly as BIG?!'" but I digress), and because I'm not on bed rest, obviously I'm more active and feel much better than I did at this stage with him. Still, the scale creeps up. And up. And up. And I thought that, whether it serve as reality check or relief, if I could just TRY ON a pair of my pre-pregnancy jeans, maybe I would feel better. Maybe I would feel worse. I don't know.
The shelf is stacked precariously high with denim, and I manage to knock down the whole stack with only a couple of jumps (God forbid I would have gone for the step stool). Sigh. It's like some kind of sordid ass scrapbook. I rifle nostalgically through the size zeros, past the short-short Abercrombie skirt I wore as a bikini cover-up the summer before I got pregnant with Lucas, past the skinny jeans from American Eagle I wore in grad school when I was running 30 miles a week and which I'm keeping in the hope of gleefully slinking into them again on my 40th birthday, ala one of those Speical K commercials. I thumb past the Size 2. Size 4. Hmm. I pause to hold up a pair of size 6 jeans that I wore last winter mid-weight-loss. Hmm. I shake them out again and hold them up to the light. Nah. I toss them aside. I am intrigued by the next pair in the pile. I have no idea what size they are, as there is no size tag, but they look convincingly like they could be a 6. Or an 8 maybe. Did I buy jeans that size? I don't even remember. They look reasonable enough anyway. I try them on carefully, tentatively, as though I suspect some type of small, poisonous reptile lurks down one of the legs. I attempt to pull them up. To my surprise (and delight) they come up easily over my hips and thighs, and, although I can't button them around the baby, I can tell that they will fit after said baby is no longer a consideration. Sweet. Sweet! I am smiling.
Feeling confident, cocky even, I reach for another pair. Distressed Silver jeans I bought in the Juniors department and wore to my 15 year high school reunion 3 months after I had Lucas. They, too, slide up with only a bit of additional encouragement (read: tugging). These are a tougher call but seem good enough, considering. Good enough. I've been walking when the weather is good and this weekend started light lifting & squats again. This makes me optimistic (fearful?) enough to keep it up. Or to plan to keep it up at least.
I abandon the pile of jeans on the bed and turn back toward the closet. One more thing. I have to work at the bookstore in the morning, and I'm wondering if I can squeeze (so to speak) one more week out of my brown maternity pants. It's been touch and go for the last month, to the point that one of these days I'm afraid I'm going to have to call Jim and tell him I'll be late due to a wardrobe emergency, or worse yet, due to a complete mental breakdown brought on by the fact that I have outgrown my maternity pants. There they hang, flimsy-looking brown things slumped pathetically over their hanger. I stare at them for a minute or two. They seem harmless, still I'm too scared to reach for them. Instead I slide the mirrored doors closed and turn off the closet light, pausing to glance back at the denim wasteland strewn across our bed. Tomorrow, I say to them, meaning the bookstore pants. I've had enough fun for one day.
I don't know exactly why I did it ("No occifer, I not been dinking."). Okay, yes I do. I have my 34 week appointment coming up on Thursday and I'm afraid of getting yelled at about my weight. People tell me I'm "not nearly as big" as I was with Lucas (an odd comment that sets off the internal dialogue, "Heeey, whaddya mean 'not nearly as BIG?!'" but I digress), and because I'm not on bed rest, obviously I'm more active and feel much better than I did at this stage with him. Still, the scale creeps up. And up. And up. And I thought that, whether it serve as reality check or relief, if I could just TRY ON a pair of my pre-pregnancy jeans, maybe I would feel better. Maybe I would feel worse. I don't know.
The shelf is stacked precariously high with denim, and I manage to knock down the whole stack with only a couple of jumps (God forbid I would have gone for the step stool). Sigh. It's like some kind of sordid ass scrapbook. I rifle nostalgically through the size zeros, past the short-short Abercrombie skirt I wore as a bikini cover-up the summer before I got pregnant with Lucas, past the skinny jeans from American Eagle I wore in grad school when I was running 30 miles a week and which I'm keeping in the hope of gleefully slinking into them again on my 40th birthday, ala one of those Speical K commercials. I thumb past the Size 2. Size 4. Hmm. I pause to hold up a pair of size 6 jeans that I wore last winter mid-weight-loss. Hmm. I shake them out again and hold them up to the light. Nah. I toss them aside. I am intrigued by the next pair in the pile. I have no idea what size they are, as there is no size tag, but they look convincingly like they could be a 6. Or an 8 maybe. Did I buy jeans that size? I don't even remember. They look reasonable enough anyway. I try them on carefully, tentatively, as though I suspect some type of small, poisonous reptile lurks down one of the legs. I attempt to pull them up. To my surprise (and delight) they come up easily over my hips and thighs, and, although I can't button them around the baby, I can tell that they will fit after said baby is no longer a consideration. Sweet. Sweet! I am smiling.
Feeling confident, cocky even, I reach for another pair. Distressed Silver jeans I bought in the Juniors department and wore to my 15 year high school reunion 3 months after I had Lucas. They, too, slide up with only a bit of additional encouragement (read: tugging). These are a tougher call but seem good enough, considering. Good enough. I've been walking when the weather is good and this weekend started light lifting & squats again. This makes me optimistic (fearful?) enough to keep it up. Or to plan to keep it up at least.
I abandon the pile of jeans on the bed and turn back toward the closet. One more thing. I have to work at the bookstore in the morning, and I'm wondering if I can squeeze (so to speak) one more week out of my brown maternity pants. It's been touch and go for the last month, to the point that one of these days I'm afraid I'm going to have to call Jim and tell him I'll be late due to a wardrobe emergency, or worse yet, due to a complete mental breakdown brought on by the fact that I have outgrown my maternity pants. There they hang, flimsy-looking brown things slumped pathetically over their hanger. I stare at them for a minute or two. They seem harmless, still I'm too scared to reach for them. Instead I slide the mirrored doors closed and turn off the closet light, pausing to glance back at the denim wasteland strewn across our bed. Tomorrow, I say to them, meaning the bookstore pants. I've had enough fun for one day.
05 December 2006
LOST: 1 Sexy. If Found, Please Bring Back.
Well, against my better judgement, tonight I am going to watch the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show on CBS. Yes, at almost 33 weeks pregnant, I am the proverbial punishment glutton.
If necessary, I can blame part of it on work. I do open at the store tomorrow, and there are usually a few people the morning after who come in looking for outfits they saw on the runway. So I guess it could be considered a work assignment. Really, though, I know that instead of concentrating on the product I'm seeing, I will focus most of my attention on the bodies wearing said product. These bodies will have sleek thighs, concave waistlines, reasonable breasts. I will think about stretch marks and fret over whether or not I can sneak through these final however-many weeks of my pregnancy without getting any. I mean, this baby is bigger than the last one was at this point--what if it's enough to finally push my fragile epidermis past its limit?
I will bemoan the fact that I seem to put on most of my pregnancy weight at the hip and thigh. Never mind the fact that I lost it all the last time. This--this is a new time. What if I stay this way forever? Oh sure, in Happy Fantasy Land in my head next summer I am going on almost daily runs pushing my two young sons ahead of me in their double jogging stroller. People who see me along the way have internal dialogue like, My God! Those can't both be hers--she looks so good! (Let me mention here that I REALLY, REALLY like life in HFL.) But I'm a realist. How will I find the time and energy to get back into shape after this baby is born, especially in the middle of winter? How, how, HOW?!
And as Giselle and Adriana and Karolina stride purposefully down to their poses, I will be thinking about c-sections. This baby is still breech. What if I have to have surgery? I mean a c-section is like Major Surgery. The closest I've come to that is having my wisdom teeth pulled the summer before I left for college. I don't like the idea of someone cutting into me and--perhaps more to the point--I don' t like the idea of the scar that's left behind. People attempt to console me with comments like, "Oh, but it's just a 'little bikini scar,' it's no big deal." Yes, but I don't have any scars there now. I like my abs. Well, I mean I like them when they look normal, not so much now. And I like my bikini line. I don't want to have to think about whether my c-section scar is covered by my bikini (also something I wear next summer in Happy Fantasy Land). I want to buy cute lingerie at work without stressing out about hiding scars or stretch marks like so many of my Clients do. Of course, my husband has already tried to console me by saying, "It'd be cool. It's like we'll have matching scars," referring to the "little bikini scar" he acquired as the result of a hernia operation he had when he was 4. (God bless him, he tries.)
Don't get me wrong--the logical part of me understands that all that really matter at this point is delivering a healthy baby, regardless of the route he takes. I understand this. But the shallow part of me just wants to look like me again. I don't need to look like Alessandra or Heidi, really. At this point, I just want to fit into pants with zippers. Ah, zippers! Now that's sexy indeed.*
*Not that I don't appreciate the finer points of shiny, blue, full-panel elastic. Oh, you know you want some.
If necessary, I can blame part of it on work. I do open at the store tomorrow, and there are usually a few people the morning after who come in looking for outfits they saw on the runway. So I guess it could be considered a work assignment. Really, though, I know that instead of concentrating on the product I'm seeing, I will focus most of my attention on the bodies wearing said product. These bodies will have sleek thighs, concave waistlines, reasonable breasts. I will think about stretch marks and fret over whether or not I can sneak through these final however-many weeks of my pregnancy without getting any. I mean, this baby is bigger than the last one was at this point--what if it's enough to finally push my fragile epidermis past its limit?
I will bemoan the fact that I seem to put on most of my pregnancy weight at the hip and thigh. Never mind the fact that I lost it all the last time. This--this is a new time. What if I stay this way forever? Oh sure, in Happy Fantasy Land in my head next summer I am going on almost daily runs pushing my two young sons ahead of me in their double jogging stroller. People who see me along the way have internal dialogue like, My God! Those can't both be hers--she looks so good! (Let me mention here that I REALLY, REALLY like life in HFL.) But I'm a realist. How will I find the time and energy to get back into shape after this baby is born, especially in the middle of winter? How, how, HOW?!
And as Giselle and Adriana and Karolina stride purposefully down to their poses, I will be thinking about c-sections. This baby is still breech. What if I have to have surgery? I mean a c-section is like Major Surgery. The closest I've come to that is having my wisdom teeth pulled the summer before I left for college. I don't like the idea of someone cutting into me and--perhaps more to the point--I don' t like the idea of the scar that's left behind. People attempt to console me with comments like, "Oh, but it's just a 'little bikini scar,' it's no big deal." Yes, but I don't have any scars there now. I like my abs. Well, I mean I like them when they look normal, not so much now. And I like my bikini line. I don't want to have to think about whether my c-section scar is covered by my bikini (also something I wear next summer in Happy Fantasy Land). I want to buy cute lingerie at work without stressing out about hiding scars or stretch marks like so many of my Clients do. Of course, my husband has already tried to console me by saying, "It'd be cool. It's like we'll have matching scars," referring to the "little bikini scar" he acquired as the result of a hernia operation he had when he was 4. (God bless him, he tries.)
Don't get me wrong--the logical part of me understands that all that really matter at this point is delivering a healthy baby, regardless of the route he takes. I understand this. But the shallow part of me just wants to look like me again. I don't need to look like Alessandra or Heidi, really. At this point, I just want to fit into pants with zippers. Ah, zippers! Now that's sexy indeed.*
*Not that I don't appreciate the finer points of shiny, blue, full-panel elastic. Oh, you know you want some.
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