Someone asked me if I was pregnant yesterday at church. Really? In an age of political correctness, don’t ask, don’t tell, and affirmative action, someone asked me if I have a bun in the oven? I was under the impression that social etiquette dictated the only time to ask is when the woman is on a gurney heading to labor and delivery.
And no it wasn’t a man who asked. I would be delighted to receive this query if I was with child, but alas, I am decidedly not. Truth be told, I think I ate too much the day before and was carrying around a small food baby. It wasn’t a real confidence building moment, but rather a long and extended awkward pause; the kind where you want to disappear or wave around fingers, particularly the middle ones, towards the commenter.
I haven’t decided whether or not I am offended, though it’s certainly on my mind, because I tend to write about what God is revealing to me. I’m guessing His lesson revolves around humility, but there’s a distinct possibility sit-ups might be involved too. Maybe it’s a not so subtle reminder to be gracious for all the dumb comments I have needlessly rendered over the years. Or, at the very least, it’s a poke at my beloved idol –vanity, which cycles in and out of importance in my life depending on the season. While, I don’t generally struggle with my weight, I do succumb to self-imposed expectations of body image.
Generally, if it’s cold outside, vanity ranks lower on the list than the hotter months because I don’t have to dwell on the appearance of the dreaded bathing suit. There is not this looming expectation floating around that at any minute the kids might want to go to the pool. If you aren’t prepared for that sort of mental trauma, it could take you out.
Part of me wants to care that someone noticed my abs could use a little attention. I need a little kick in the pants to get me all riled up. I want to go to the gym more, scurry around less, and make healthy living a priority. But, I am also overwhelmed with life, excuses and justifications to avoid this conversation entirely or at least until the days grow warmer and the motivation to not carry around my holiday muffin-top kicks in. The voices in my head battle between going to the gym and writing, and lately the prosaic shout has trumped the gym-rat squeak to get my attention.
I wonder sometimes, if there is a certain age or stage in life when you can just let yourself go and it’s ok? I’m sure all the men out there will say…no. And fundamentally I guess I agree on a health level, but maybe there is a point, some proverbial happy medium, when you can let yourself go to the gym a little less and live a little more.
When a woman, someone like me, perhaps, let’s go of the obsessive hot girl mentality, and laughs at the crappy comments life throws at her. It’s the day when she embraces the one-piece bathing suit, allows spandex to be her friend and simply enjoys a margarita out by the pool instead of worrying how it’s going to ruin her carb intake for the day.
My skin is getting thicker by the moment as I write this. My fingers are flying with passion across the keyboard. But this nagging thought remains… a few more workouts and few less Girl Scout cookies wouldn’t hurt. And if you have any doubts about my maternal status, I promise to let you know if and when I get knocked up again.
But until then, tread lightly around my little Buddha belly. For now, it simply indicates happiness, busyness, and a relinquishment of my inner striver. And, I suppose, maybe a few too many chocolates before bedtime.
