7 months pregnant.
I parked my car snugly between two cars and
was happy at my precision. I really didn't get why people think women can't
park. I attempted to get out. It took me 10 seconds of awkward struggle with
the car to realize that I would not fit through the narrow space.
By the 9th month, banging into the dining
table much before anticipated was normal. So was opening the fridge door into
my bump, accidentally knocking things off the table, walking into the sink,
etc. I was like those 'hit-me' toys with a lowered center of gravity.
Mentally, my body was still 53ish and not shy
of 70! Sleeping on my back or tummy or on my right side or without 4 pillows
seemed like sweet, distant memory. Simple things become a luxury when you don't
get to do it. Like, wearing heels or being able to tie my shoelaces or touch my
ankles, or not feeling like a penguin.
None of this seemed like a burden though. It
seemed more like a short lived inconvenience. I had blind faith in my old
friend, metabolism. I was so sure I would bounce back to my pre-pregnancy
weight and be able to wear jeans with a zip, in no time. Plus, the bump looked so cute. Just
like Zoo-Zoo's. Everyone smiles at you with a motherly warmth and helps out.
Strangers open doors, give their seats to you, you don't have to stand in a queue
especially if you're standing at the food counter at the movies. People clear
out of the way as though you're a Princess or as though you're armed. You're in
a happy bubble as round as your belly.
But yeh bump aate hue jitna accha lagta hai,
jate hue utna bura! The shriveled, raisin look was not working for me. No no
no. At least give me back a wrinkle free tummy? Huh, nature? Looking at my
tummy would be my least favorite and at the same time oddly hilarious thing to
do. That top that you bought when you didn't know you were expecting
doesn't fit you anymore. Forget fitting, it gets stuck while you try to wear it
and you're caught in this embarrassing neither in nor out situation, funny, yet
you can't laugh, stuck and you can't breathe. You throw it away and your new
body smiles at you sheepishly while you look at that top apologetically. How humbling can it be! There was no scope
of vanity in my postpartum appearance. Jelly tummy, constellation of pimples on the
face, a gait similar to hip-replacement patient. If this wasn't humbling, I
don't know what could be.
How long can you fret about something which is not in your control at that moment? One forms such a sense of identity with physical appearance that
to disconnect you from your form becomes difficult. You want to work out
but your stitches won't have any of that non sense. You want to watch what you
eat but your appetite and well-brought up taste buds revolt against it. Good meaning people keep saying that it took 9 months to get here, give yourself a year before you get back.
Resigned to the current scheme of things, sitting slumped with my flab keeping me cozy, one fine moment, it dawned on me like some sort of a maturity
lightening that struck me out of nowhere. My face, my body, my bones too will
change eventually but my personality, and my basic human nature will be unscathed by the
surgeon's knife. Enhance that. Invest there; make it so solid that, that is
what you rely on the most. Build yourself with things that only get better with time. That is what you associate yourself with the most.
That is where you draw your sense of self and your identity from, right now you can't avoid this so face it the best way you can, get your game face on... and in the
meantime, put down that ladoo and workout fatty.
PS: Metabolism, my friends, can we talk?
Please don’t break up with me!
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