As I entered my 40’s, I noticed stuff about my body. Stuff was changing. I noticed the consistency of my skin was looser and my neck skin was stretchy. I noticed my droopy, aka “hooded”, eyelids which make me look like poor Dahlia, the super sweet dog who always looked cranky for need of a prednisone shot. Both skin and eyes are symptoms of pre-facelift-itis. My eyesight betrayed me and I required reading glasses to peruse my menu in restaurants. In public. Gah! The arthritis in my fingertips is just ridiculous.
Just when I began my scramble to either camouflage this horrifically undeniable event or increase my therapy hours, I had my mea culpa delivered right to my body’s doorstep in the form of the penultimate of mulligans, pregnancy. I wasn’t too old to have one last shot at the promise of youth. My friend shrieked, “Retin-A products cause autism”. No worries. I either won’t pay that much for skin care products or am not very diligent in my facial care regime.
Bright side is that now I have been given a legitimate excuse from fussing over my extra belly fat for one more year. Prior to June, I fought a valiant battle against the most heinous of bodily insults called my pot belly and sorta won by shedding ten pounds. Alas, where I had a new promising wardrobe, I honestly have no pants to wear now. Hopefully, after I give birth, I will be so elated I won’t have time to really care ever again whether my tummy is flat like a Barbie doll. Ever notice prepubescent girls and senior women’s bodies’ alike have a tendency store extra fat on the abdomen. It’s natural. When did it become a bad thing to actually be a woman?
Pregnancy and old age seem to have one or two things in bodily common: a time-worn female condition known as the backed up colon. My husband offered his apologies. “Oh my, you are showing”, my neighbor said because we both know two or three or four months aren’t typically this large. On any given day, without being regular, I can look like I’m carrying twins. Not to mention the taut girth about me caused by the sheer quantity of food I needed to ingest to quell the sick beast within.
I patiently await all the other indignities that the pregnancy hormones are destined to deliver. Footfunk and bloody noses. Swollen feet and heartburn. These will come and go but the arthritic fingers and bad eyesight will linger. My friend and I started laughing when we considered I may need one of those large spring armed magnifying glasses on the changing table to make double sure all the baby’s cracks and crevices are actually clean.
“It is what it is until it isn’t”, is what I say. Expecting at this age is like ten Christmas presents rolled into one. And I‘m looking forward to the future when I’ll look radiant and gorgeous enough to turn my husband’s and a few strangers’ heads at the nice restaurant he’ll be taking me to on our first post delivery date night out. I’ve been granted one dream come true, I can be greedy.