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.
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