I’ve been doing well with the whole “20 minutes of cardio every day” thing. I missed last night because of Kimmie’s birthday gathering, but other than that we’re talking 2 solid weeks of daily walking/running/jogging. It’s a record! The numbers on the scale haven’t moved much, and that’s okay; the amount of effort I’ve put into this so far isn’t such that would induce any real change on that front. I’m not feeling any more lean or fit; again, totally fine and in line with how hard I’ve been trying. Baby steps, baby steps, baby steps.
I’m thinking it’s time to step up my game, though. This afternoon, in what was supposed to be the afternoon production meeting but instead only consisted of me and one of the other four mandatory attendees, my Mexican-born co-worker was standing next to me as I sat at my desk when he suddenly reached over in front of me, patted my belly, and said “What happen? You baby?” It took a minute for his meaning to sink in. “Nah, man, just fat!” I tried to laugh it off and move on with work-related shit, but his words are recorded in my mind, playing over and over again on a loop.
I mean, it’s one thing for me to stand naked in front of the mirror, looking at my reflection from the side, and realize that when I was growing up, this is the figure I thought I’d have at around 8 months gestation. Fuck me, it’s another thing entirely to have it pointed out by a man I work with.
Did I mention this is the second time this particular question has been posed to me by co-workers in the last 2 years?
I told my boss. “See, I thought everyone understood the universal rule that you NEVER ask a woman if she’s pregnant. I don’t get it.”
I don’t get it either. Sense, people. Use it.
Meanwhile, I took Finn for a walk when I got home, and I guess that and 60 crunches will be added to my nightly repertoire going forward.
Mexicans obviously didn't get the memo...ReplyDelete