The following was written during the last month of my pregnancy. I didn't post it then because some readers (you know who you are) complained about how I was blogging about my body all the time. I've realized since then that, when you're nearing delivery, your body is like its own planet, complete with unique gravity (which results in food stains on the front of your clothes) and weather systems (which run about 20 degrees hotter than ambient temperature). So yeah, when you've become a planetoid, I figure you're entitled to gripe about it a little. If you don't like it, don't read it.
I’ve never been a big person. Instead, I’ve spent my life hunting for extra smalls in department stores and trying to convince people that, though I may be the same size as my 12 year-old students, I’m actually an adult. The heaviest I’ve ever been - prior to now - was when I took a weightlifting class in high school. Even then, I only tipped the scales at 118 - and that was almost all muscle. (I know, I know. Life is highly unfair. Hate me if you want, but it’s just genetics.)
Being pregnant has been an interesting chance for me to see how the other half lives. I now weigh in at 57 kilos, which is something like 125 pounds. At least ten of those pounds were acquired in the last two months and almost all of them are right in front of me. Such rapid expansion has caused some rather unpleasant and unexpected side effects.
For one thing, I can’t reach anything anymore. Faucet knobs are beyond my grasp because the counters hit me right at belly level. Thanks to prenatal yoga, I’m still pretty limber and can access my feet without trouble, but short of Go-Go-Gadget arms, there’s not much I can do about the sink problem. It’s a pity, because I’d much rather have clean hands than tied shoes.
Speaking of bathrooms, just getting into the stall can be a tactical nightmare. Everything in Spain is smaller - cars, houses, portions at McDonalds, etc. Unfortunately, this also applies to public restrooms. They tend to be about half the size of those in the states and barely have room for the toilet, my belly, and (if I’m lucky) a roll of TP. To further complicate matters, the door opens inward, leaving about an inch of clearance between it and the commode. To get in one of these things and lock it shut, I practically have to climb in the toilet bowl.
That’s not my only issue with small spaces, however. The other day I was at the pool, wriggling into my maternity swimsuit. The next thing I knew, my face was smushed against the wall of the changing booth and I was trying desperately not to fall over. It seems my center of gravity wasn’t where I left it the day before.
Even after they’re safely on, clothes still bring their own set of problems. While I knew I wouldn’t fit my regular clothing once I hit, oh, week two, it never occurred to me that underwear could become the bane of my existence. Unless they’re all hiding on the dark side of pudge, I’m still stretch-mark free. Clearly visible, though, are several pink scars from blisters caused by the waistbands of too-tight undies. It makes me wish I’d taken Abuela’s XL under-drawers when I had the chance.
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