The absence has been a direct result of my total lack of running, which has contributed both to an overall sense of laziness (thus deciding prior to setting down to write that engaging in any such activity would require more effort than I was motivated to put forth), as well as a sense of embarrassment and loss of identity that interfered with coming up with anything to write. That isn't to say I have given up running completely-- I attended a group run a couple weeks ago, and I have been visiting my treadmill occasionally (it's too cold to take the kids out in the double jogger). I was dismayed on my last treadmill attempt, however, when I discovered that running just one mile at a ten minute pace resulted in my abdomen feeling as if it were splitting in half.
I felt validated, however, when I discovered the next day at my first ultrasound that I was actually 19 weeks pregnant and not the 13 weeks we had initially thought. Huzzah for that.
So in the pain (and frustration-- my last pregnancy, I ran until 7 months), I have been on the lookout for an elliptical to get a good cross training regimen in place until I can run successfully after this babe arrives to as to avoid starting from scratch. I have a half marathon in mind, and a goal to PR by seven minutes on its very hilly terrain. I'll do it, gosh darnit, and therefore have to keep up the sweat in the mean time.
So what does a running mama write about when she is no longer running? Instead, I'll shift to my other passion (well, you know, other than my children, because that could get really boring really quickly to anyone and everyone who isn't me or a grandparent of said children):
Being pretty.
No, that doesn't translate to a blog about the latest lipstick shades or how to accessorize that bedazzled scarf to compliment your figure. I'm the last person on the planet that should offer fashion advice or makeup tips-- my husband actually told me early in our marriage that he wanted us to run home to change before heading to a social gathering because I, and I'm quoting here, "looked homeless." I, on the other hand, was more than okay with going out in public in my outfit, hence why I was already out in public in said outfit. So not so fashion savvy-- I was the first daughter to two very educated, very brilliant in the sciences parents, who knew nothing about hair styles or cute shoes or what brands were in, because what was the point? The lab coat would just cover it, or there'd be animal blood, or who wants to wear heels to stand all day looking through a microscope?
No, those things were not imparted on me as a child. When I left the nest and started the process of seeking a mate, I began to attempt to self educate through the use of magazines and other media which imparted an incredibly objectified, narrow view of what beauty was. My eating disorder went off in full swing, but my hair was no longer frizzy, my makeup was always in place, and the numbers on my clothing indicating size were getting smaller and smaller, which by all the definitions I had been given, meant that I was becoming acceptable. Of course, no matter how low the number on the scale got, or how many boys expressed interest in dating me, I still viewed myself as the awkward, chubby girl with a stutter who was only spoken to by a member of the opposite sex when they were interested in dating one of my friends. I still feel like this person most of the time.
Then, there's my husband. A classically good looking guy. He's one of those people who literally walked into a trendy clothing store in the mall when he was a teenager, and without expressing any interest or even opening his mouth to speak to anyone, he was offered a job to work there. He's just one of those people.
You know-- one of the "pretty people."
So as my pregnancy progresses, and I'm in the phase where people look at me and can't tell I'm expecting but instead assume I just really like candy, I about fell out of my chair when my husband told me about a conversation he'd had with a coworker. He'd shown her pictures of his family, and she made some snarky remark about how it's impossible to understand how difficult life really is when you're just a whole family of the "pretty people."
His recounting of the story to me kind of lingered in the air for a moment, and then I clarified-- was she including ME in that scenario?
In fact, she was.
I laughed. I snorted. I dismissed her assessment as that of someone who was delusional, had a vision impairment, or simply was being kind (in a backhanded, angry sort of way).
But then I thought about it, and it made me wonder-- how many times do I group others that I encounter as members of the "pretty people"? The people who, when they start a conversation with me, I write off as them simply being charitable, or bored, or looking to talk to my pretty-people husband? They could also be the awkward, chubby, stuttering girl who was good at math. No one tells that version of the Ugly Duckling story-- the one where the beautiful swan remains unconvinced that it is no longer the Ugly Duckling-- but I'm willing to bet that in the world we live in, where women are constantly objectified, minimized (both in the terms of the importance we play in society as well as literally minimized through photoshop), and normalized pornography is disguised as "empowerment," I bet we live in a world filled with Ugly Ducklings in swan's clothing (or homeless person clothing, depending on whether their husbands laid out their outfits that morning).
So if you don't mind, I'm going to shift my focus for a bit. I'm sure I'll include some fascinating tales of my elliptical stunts (I have managed to fall off a stationary bike before, so this could be fun), but I'll make my own little temporary soap box for it a bit and get comfortable. It's the last I can do while this expanding belly takes over my ability to sleep comfortably (that starts earlier and earlier with each pregnancy, doesn't it?).
In the meantime, here's some cuteness of my wee one just two days after his first birthday-- Doing my part to make more of the "pretty people," one babe at a time.
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