I was avoiding going to Fat Losers (aka Weight Watchers) this week, blaming it on the baby's new nap schedule -- which is yet sort of fluid and non-scheduley -- but in part out of dread that I was not losing. But I hopped on the scale here at home this morning and lo and behold, down two pounds... Our scale is a little on the flaky side, it's new and all but not super expensive or whatever and if you hop on & off a few times you'll get different readings. But it's two pounds below any reading I've had before, so I think that's pretty cool. I usually just take one reading rather than try for a different result, as it seems pretty pointless and what if it reads higher the second or third time?! Gasp!
Strollered on down to the local cappucino purveyors for a little something and a few minutes to finish up a letter to Cindy, my nutty friend from Arizona -- really nutty makes her sound harmless and daffy, when really she is wicked smart and funny as hell. A woman of substance, to be reckoned with, etc. The baby was moderately cooperative, i.e. tolerates the stroller now that she can see well enough to enjoy the scenery going by, and sat for a bit in it inside the coffee shop while I finished up. There were a bunch of other moms filtering in, some evidently from a playgroup or something, mostly with slightly older babies but some with young ones like Delia, so a lot of "How old is your baby?" and "S/He's cute!" were had by all.
There was also one of those extremely hip, casual, hugely pregnant girls there. I think I overheard her saying she was 23... due in 5 days... she was wearing a tank top, a skirt, and platform sneakers. And she was one of those types that won't look you in the eye because she's too cool. So I sat there feeling old and frumpy, in my too-big pants and my extremely expensive running shoes that look dorky in any context except running but make my feet feel so good I can't stop wearing them (I have Foot Issues big time), and my wash-n-wear hair, and no makeup because I don't wear it, and fully fourteen years older than this brazen little jezebel.
And then I remembered that I like my life, I like myself, and it doesn't matter that I'm not 23 anymore -- in fact the early 20's was the on-ramp to some truly miserable years and I wouldn't relive all that for anything -- and platform sneakers are a bad idea for anybody, let alone somebody 9 months pregnant, and secretly I thought she looked kind of stupid and isn't it a lot of work to maintain the hip, cool image? Wouldn't you rather think about something outside yourself at least part of the time? And then I wondered how she would manage the demands of an infant who won't have the common decency to stop being needful long enough for her to hip-and-cool-ify herself on a regular basis for months, if not years... and I hoped it would be her that would accomodate and not the baby. So then, having successfully thought myself out of feeling old and frumpy, I wheeled the young one home and put her down for a nap with only about 5 minutes of protest crying. :)