The word prego is often used as a cute little reference to pregnancy. It is also a marginal pasta sauce. Prego, in my case, as a woman both pregnant and eating a lot, can be used interchangeably.
This morning I am in pain. Everything hurts. I began my nifty new pregnancy workout video yesterday, armed with only a sports bra and the naive expectation that after three nauseous months of relative inactivity, my muscles would still be raring to go. Talk about a miscalculation. It was the equivalent of thinking that because I can tilt my head to look at the sky, I am qualified for space travel.
The woman in charge took me through 45 minutes of yoga, calisthenics and breathwork. She looks to be about 6 months pregnant, speaks with a French accent, and is adorable. I may develop a crush on her before this pregnancy comes to term. Also, she is a Cirque d’Soleil acrobat, a smug fact in which she rubbed my nose every time she effortlessly cast her leg above her head. And flex. And down. And breathe. I lay there cursing her ligaments as my own hips underperformed. Surely, I am more flexible than this! Aren’t I?
Dammit, no. This pregnancy is already wreaking havoc with my body. Let’s start with the tummy. If I didn’t know me, I’d be one of the women about whom I’d say either, “She really should not be wearing low riders,” or more likely, “Lay off the beer, lady.” This is that in between stage when my whole middle is getting thicker by the second, but it really just makes me look like I am coupling too much wheat with too few sit-ups.
This pregnancy thing is also getting expensive. Not only will I have to buy new clothes in about a week, but I believe that I may be contributing to the deforestation of the Amazon with the amount of toilet paper I am using. Pregnant women get very thirsty, and so we pee A LOT. I could probably power a small third-world country with the force of my urine stream alone.
And the breasts. Ohhhh the breasts. I won’t complain too much that I am about to need a bigger bra, because that secretly delights me and openly delights my husband, but the pain certainly is odd. The worst time of day is when I am in bed at night and have to get up to tinkle (see above). It has something to do with gravity, with moving from a prone position to leaning over to lift the toilet lid, and there are no words to describe how achy and uncomfortable this can be. Actually, the words “bricks”, “weights” and “gallons” come close, but not quite. It is an utterly new sensation - everything about them is novel. I actually raced home from one of my walks last week to phone my best friend and announce breathlessly that my boobs are now casting shadows. I am mortified, but thrilled.
On the subject of walking, I have no idea what the hell is going on with my hips. I used to be very graceful, and even received frequent compliments on the way that I walked. Now it’s as if my legs are tied into splints; I am beginning to plod. My lumbering through the neighborhood sends small animals scurrying and local geologists running to their desks.
I don’t know what this body is doing, but it’s certainly up to something…
