So between running, breastfeeding, three weeks of Asian meal portions, being sick, biking, and not actually putting on all that much weight when I was pregnant with the Monkey King, I'm actually the least heavy I've ever been in my adult life and have been for a little while now. And up until last week, I would say, I was feeling cynical about that, because my belly still was, and always will be, poochy and flabby.
Two full term pregnancies concluding with big old monster babies coming out au naturel and one surgically-concluded trimester of a pregnancy my body had no idea had terminated itself fucked up a lot of stuff down there, which has left it a really bad idea for me to do things that will ever resurrect the six pack (or more honestly the 2 x 1.5 pack) I rocked for a little while between babies and before Godzilla. And you know, I really loved that stomach. It was great. Not too show-offy, not unnatural looking, but gosh it looked strong and awesome, and I wanted it back, and I have been having to accept that it will not be coming back. Not when sit-ups or Pilates group classes or plank challenges or whatever the fuck risk pushing my organs out of my own body.
It's been a road, but finally I'm there. I got to the point where I started seeing my permapooch as a badge of honour for how I'm still wearing my bladder on the inside; an emblem of picking and choosing when and where I pee. And I'm even past that point, in the sense that about a week ago I decided my pooch is actually adorable and anyone without one is missing out because they're decorative.
Give my narcissism enough time . . . it will find a way.
This is similar to something that happened around 20 years ago now, when I messed up my knee. A lot of limitations came home to me then, and they had a paradoxical effect of making me appreciate all the magical things my body COULD do. That was a sort of watershed moment; I started liking my body a lot more, and it laid the groundwork for me to eventually start treating it better.
Two full term pregnancies concluding with big old monster babies coming out au naturel and one surgically-concluded trimester of a pregnancy my body had no idea had terminated itself fucked up a lot of stuff down there, which has left it a really bad idea for me to do things that will ever resurrect the six pack (or more honestly the 2 x 1.5 pack) I rocked for a little while between babies and before Godzilla. And you know, I really loved that stomach. It was great. Not too show-offy, not unnatural looking, but gosh it looked strong and awesome, and I wanted it back, and I have been having to accept that it will not be coming back. Not when sit-ups or Pilates group classes or plank challenges or whatever the fuck risk pushing my organs out of my own body.
It's been a road, but finally I'm there. I got to the point where I started seeing my permapooch as a badge of honour for how I'm still wearing my bladder on the inside; an emblem of picking and choosing when and where I pee. And I'm even past that point, in the sense that about a week ago I decided my pooch is actually adorable and anyone without one is missing out because they're decorative.
Give my narcissism enough time . . . it will find a way.
This is similar to something that happened around 20 years ago now, when I messed up my knee. A lot of limitations came home to me then, and they had a paradoxical effect of making me appreciate all the magical things my body COULD do. That was a sort of watershed moment; I started liking my body a lot more, and it laid the groundwork for me to eventually start treating it better.
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento