It’s 5:30 a.m. I squeeze myself into one of my last pairs of non-maternity workout pants, make a mockery of my size-large sports bra with my size-XXXXL maternity cleavage, grab a t-shirt, heart monitor, socks/shoes, and off I head to the gym.
I offer a cheery hello to the nice lady at the YMCA reception desk, deciding to ignore her comment, “I am surprised YOU are still here!” and bound up the stairs.
Just like any other health-conscious working man or woman, I find myself a spot on the row of elliptical machines, strategically position my water bottle, towel and iPhone, hit start—and off I go to the Black-Eyed Peas.
And let me tell you…Imma Be workin’ it just like I did when I didn’t have a bundle of joy growing in my uterus. Whoop, whoop!
I’d set the timer for 30 minutes, but what the hell, let’s make it 40.
Pregnant lady? I don’t see a pregnant lady. Looking across from me at the mirrors by the weights, my baby bump obscured by the elliptical, I just see a flushed face, still-relatively-slim arms and legs pumping, no different from the face and limbs of the flat-bellied chick next to me.
Forty minutes later, I am admittedly a bit wobbly legged when I hop off the machine, but I get dizzy all the time these days, whether I am climbing off an elliptical or getting out of my chair at work. All that extra progesterone will do that.
Dizzy spell aside, I am filled with confidence as I head down the stairs, mentally patting myself on the back for having burned almost 600 calories and for clocking in an extra 10 minutes.
That feeling lasts all of about one minute: At the bottom of the steps, the YMCA receptionist is looking up at me with a tsk tsk expression on her face. “You know, we do have an elevator,” she chides me, likely in the same voice she uses for the Silver Sneakers YMCA patrons. “Climbing all those stairs is a lot for someone in your condition to handle.”
Ugh, my condition? Can’t we just forget about that for one 40 minute period? The little guy had been ellipticalled to sleep and politely hadn’t given me a single nudge during my entire workout…so why did she have to nudge me? Is it so wrong to want to escape from feeling like a human incubator for one short time period a few days a week?
Then, rubbing it in all the more, YMCA lady adds, “You look a little peaked. Are you sure you don’t want to sit down for a minute?”
Um, nope, I’m good.
I’m starting to understand why back in the day, being pregnant meant entering a period of confinement.