Two months ago I had a miscarriage. Miscarriages are things people don’t talk about, though I wish they would. Perhaps if we talked about them more, we who go through them would know what to expect. Did you know, for example, that if you are over 40 and pregnant you have a 1 in 2 chance of miscarriage? And that 1/3 of all pregnancies end in miscarriage? Continue reading
Feminist Figure Girl: Well Hissy Fit, complaining about motherhood is absolutely forbidden, especially to those who have healthy, happy infants. So are you ready to break a social taboo and piss off a lot of people?
Hissy Fit: Bring it.
It’s hard not to get upset when you start back at the gym after a prolonged period away. I was off for two full months while recovering from a caesarean section, forbidden by my doctor from lifting anything over ten pounds. I was inclined to follow his advice after reading online descriptions of post-partum women who had ripped their stomachs open by training too soon after surgery. Although I had worked out seriously until I was 8 months pregnant, and then in a somewhat lame-ass way until two days before giving birth, I was shocked by how quickly my fitness level declined. Previously I had done shitloads of full chin-ups, but now I am back on the assisted pull-up machine, managing five sets of five slowly with 50 pounds of weight counterbalancing me. And as for full push-ups? Forget it. I have returned to my knees. How the mighty have fallen. It is truly humiliating.
At 37 years old, I have the most body fat I’ve ever had in my life. Except, possibly, for when I was in my mid-20s. At that point, my teenage metabolism had all but stopped and the weight was creeping on faster than a basement flood in spring.
I have been watching a lot of TV lately, mostly while breastfeeding my baby boy. Once I get the hang of this new and repeated activity, I can no doubt do something more productive while nursing, like reading collections of short stories. [Aside: I am currently obsessed with figuring out how to write short stories that aren’t total crap]. Back to TV: While lying prone in a hospital bed last week, recovering from surgery with a mewling newborn nestled on my chest, I began to watch random programs that I had never seen before, including one called My 600-Pound Life. My initial reaction was probably commonplace: fascination mixed with equal parts of horror and empathy. Continue reading