One of the tenant philosophies within the nomenclature of Ladies Who Launch is "do something nice for yourself as a discipline, not an option." So it is in this vein that I shut down the computer several times a week and waddle my pregnant self to the gym for some well-being time in the pool. There, weightless, I glide around the slow lane with the over-65 set and pray that the journey between pool and locker room is short, unpopulated and warm enough to keep the goosebumps at bay (which really don't help anyone in a bathing suit, least of all the penguin-like pregos like me).
Just because I weigh more than my husband right now doesn't mean I'm not happy with my body; it's a magical thing, this human-producing journey, so it's really not the other hot-bods and babes in spandex that have me riddled with self-doubt and recrimination at the Club.
It's their gym bags. Why is it that my relationship with my locker resembles that of a 14 year-old boy? I'm all socks, pants, sneakers and sandals askew within a five foot radius while Little Miss Organized has her painstakingly bleached white socks, gym shoes, workout pants and jog bra presented neat'n'tidy within a square foot near her brand-spanking-new gym bag with corresponding cosmetic cases inside. As my friend Stacie says, who shares my plight, "I look like Vietnam while she looks like the White House Rose Garden." And it's more than the fact that she seems so organized. She's also the one spending 45 minutes on her hair, carefully applying moisturizer to perfectly tanned legs with wrinkle-free white blouse and skinny jeans hung casually in view. Everything is white white white, pressed pressed pressed, perfect perfect perfect. Her lip gloss matches her pedicure. Her skin needs no cover-up - but why would it? She never saw a pore in her life.
It is this goddess of "perfect" who kicks off my downward spiral. Suddenly, all my states of affairs, relationships, DMV renewal, dentist appointments, unreturned calls, dinner not-yet-cooked, grocery list growing dusty....appear to be unrequited, amiss. My life, once happy and textured, vibrant and inspired, is suddenly messy, dark, unlaundered, awry.
Oh, the power of this 28 year-old with likely no husband, children, demanding job or rich and interesting life. At least this is what I tell myself. As long as she doesn't have "it all" in life I guess I'd be willing to let her have "it all" at the gym. That seems fair. Because as ridiculous as I know I'm being, I want to be her and be me! Her every bill is paid, cavity filled, floor vacuumed, call returned.
It's amazing the deductions I've made based on this locker room experience.
Chock it up to hormones--or at least let me do it while I can.