The good thing about joining the Y is that I got to work out one day this week. Unfortunately, Lilah only made it 20 minutes before summoning me back to the childcare room, where she followed in her brothers’ footsteps by nursing around an unhooked jog bra. I did my best not to drip sweat on her and wondered, as I had for the other two children, whether she noticed that her meal was a bit saltier than usual. After she finished, I gave her back to the childminders and dashed back to the locker room for a shower, whereupon I discovered the bad thing about joining the Y.
Three-quarter length mirrors.
We do not have a full-length mirror at home, so I had heretofore been spared a view of what my midsection has become. Also, I am usually accessorizing with a baby worn right over my belly. Standing there, naked, in the YMCA locker room, I came face-to-face with reality: I am not longer a hottie. Shit, right now I don’t even qualify as a lukewarmie.
I’m damned lucky that I am married, because there is no way I’d let some stranger see me from just below my breasts to just above my knees. If my husband were ever to leave me, I’d need to only date men who are into ankles. Because those are looking fine.
On the bright side, I’m down a pound.