Possibly inspired by the fact that I’ve been watching a few
too many re-runs of “The Biggest Loser” lately, and possibly because of the
fact that I was a bit bored, and possibly because I’m confusing labor and
delivery with an endurance fitness event, I decided that it would be a good
idea to go to the gym last week.
Now, I’ve been walking and swimming and going to
pregnant-lady-exercise class, and pregnant-lady yoga and whatnot, but I thought
that I’d mix it up a little in week 31 (because isn’t that what the third
trimester is for?) and lift some weights.
Because there’s nothing more inspiring to a dedicated gym rat than a
hugely pregnant lady bench-pressing 20 pounds. And then getting stuck on the bench because she has lost all
abdominal function and cannot sit up or manage to right herself without
flopping about like a walrus hauling itself up the beach.
So, off I waddled to the weight room. I needn’t have worried about my
propensity to flop about or my delightfully protruding belly button, however,
as the denizens of the weight room—all of them male (of course), none of them
pregnant (again, I’d say, “of course,” but thanks to Oprah, I’m not really sure
what to say)—were completely and totally engrossed in examining each other’s
abs and making comparisons. (I did
have a fleeting thought of going over, lifting my shirt and showing my belly
too, but I tactfully refrained. I
didn’t want to inspire jealousy.)
And then, they all started showing off their patented ab-firming moves,
from crunches to other types of crunches to yet an even third type of
crunch. It was all very
fascinating as I lay there on my back wishing I had one single ab muscle,
capable of pulling me upright or, perhaps, that I could strike a deal with the
person living inside my general ab area whereby she would be responsible for
hoisting me up from inside.
Anyway, as I was rolling myself off the bench all graceful
and lady-like, I discovered that the conversation had taken a new turn. Done with sharing the secrets of a
successful six-pack, they commenced revealing their ages. The range was from 68-75.
I tried very, very hard to pretend that my presence did not inspire their final subject of conversation: vasectomies and the age at which they are best gotten.