Tom and I are participating in a corporate fitness challenge through his work. It's very cool--we're split up into teams, and work our asses off for 12 weeks. Yesterday we met with the personal trainer for our assessments. Even though I had already been doing Weight Watchers for 6 weeks and going to the gym for an hour six days a week (mostly to help with depression), I was still really nervous to meet with this guy. I knew that he was going to measure my body fat, which meant calipers, which meant that I was going to have to lift up my shirt. Under that shirt was going to be a belly covered in stretch marks, a long vertical purple scar that extends almost to my belly button and saggy, wrinkled skin. I was hoping that whoever this person was, he wouldn't say anything and that I wouldn't open my big mouth and say anything about having been pregnant. I had done that before when I was shopping for running shoes a few weeks ago. I felt like I had to explain to the superfit sales woman why I was in such horrible shape. "I just had a baby." She didn't leave it at "congrats", she wanted to know--boy or girl? What's his name? Are you getting lots of sleep? Are you nursing? I had to stand there and lie so that she wouldn't feel bad, even though I wanted to run screaming back to my car. It's a boy. Nathaniel. Yes, I'm sleeping very well. (not a lie--thanks to vistaril) Yes, I'm nursing. (Well, I would have and I bet that I would have been good at it!) I promised myself that that was going to be the first and last time I said anything to a stranger.
It turned out that the trainer wasn't really a stranger. We had met him at the company Halloween party in October. He saw us and said, "Kevin and Britney!" (Yup, I went as a trashy, pregnant Britney Spears--I even had a MILF in Training tank top. Tom looked extra sleezy as Kevin Federline.) When we got into his office we chatted for a bit, and then he said it: "You guys were pregnant, how's the kid?" Oh Shit. Tom and I start laughing nervously and looking at each other. "Well, he died," we say. And then immediately start scrambling to try and make him feel better about asking that question. He felt terrible, you could tell. This is the second time that this has happened to me--when someone that we knew hadn't heard about our loss--and I really feel worse for them having asked that question and getting my answer than I do for me having to answer it. It goes to show that MOST babies live and are fine. Otherwise, people would ask if your baby survived in the first place.
Okay, as it turns out I am mostly fat. It's a wonder I can even stand. Ugh. My 12 week goal is to lose 32 pounds--that's 2.7 pounds a week. Holy Crap. On the bright side, it's an absolutely beautiful day. Everything is blooming and the smell of grass is wafting through my open window. Oh, and all of my herbs are planted. Yay! I see pesto in my future!