Survival of the Fattest

I’ve been away for some time. Its not because I lost my funny bone, it’s because I’ve gained something. I’ve gained weight, especially around my tummy. Thats right, I am currently in my 9th month of pregnancy (although I look about 2 years in) and I am just a large bundle of emotions, confusion, and a whole lot of reshuffled priorities. Sure, I’ve experienced many of the wonderful aspects of reproduction; glowing skin, thicker hair, lower IQ, but there are so many more adventures that await one in the third trimester, or what I like to call: Proof of Satan.

My first 2 trimesters were amazing; I had no nausea, almost no bad symptoms, and was just floating on a cloud of air and progesterone. Then as I hit the third, almost right on cue, all the woes and aches you read about started to manifest. Not only was my belly the size of a small african village, but my back was now screaming “I didn’t sign up for this, fatso!” Along with my vanished waist, my ankles now turned shy and decided to dress up as elephant trunks.

Other things vanish as well. Like every morning, I’m sure I put on underwear, and yet when I return home after a long day of working, it takes surgery to locate and remove them. Maternity underwear? These things look like they could parachute you to safety from a crashing jet. I’m going to keep mine after delivery to donate to refugee camps as I’m sure a single pair could sheild a small family from the elements.

Simple everyday tasks that you take for granted suddenly become cause for concern. Sitting on the ground? Enjoy the 3 and a half hours it will take you to get up now. Dropped something? This is where you ask yourself “how badly do I need that credit card in my life?” Toenails getting long? Well maybe it is a time to change my foot look from ‘normal human’ to ‘fetching hobbit’.

Oh and one of my favourites: not only am I the size of a small sumo wrestler now but my libido has never been higher. And its hard to feel like a vixen when just turning in bed causes you to emit sounds like one of the zombies from World War Z. Now when I’m feeling raunchy all I can do is lay on my side and hope husband finds a crack big enough to penetrate me through. Sweet talk is now a thing of the past, where old sayings of “I need you” are replaced with “Come on soldier, be brave, mama needs a shudder.”

In addition to superficial changes, my insides feel like they are being rearranged by my precious little one. I always feel him punching around in my liver, probably because he found a stash of fun stuff there. I’m sure he’s just hanging around there, as bored as I am, redecorating, thinking ‘oh what’s this? Her G spot? Let’s just move this, she won’t be needing this for a while.”

Of course every mama has been dealt her fair share of asinine advice and infuriating questions. I genuinely don’t understand people who can still think that with all the technology we have, I wouldn’t know if I was carrying twins or not. Or the old wives tales like “Don’t eat pineapple or your vagina wille explode!” Case in point: I eat pineapple every day and me and little acrobat are doing just swell, thank you.

And ladies, just a small word of advice: if your birth experience was horrendous, you absolutely do not need to share your war story with an expectant mother. I literally envision for myself a wonderful, calm, glorious culmination for my pregnancy, so it does no use whatsoever to describe to me how your glory hole was shredded as you screamed for mythological deities to save your soul. I’m not naive in thinking things might not go horribly wrong, but I would like to bask in the hope that come DDay, I won’t need therapy to overcome the trauma. Delivery is a very personal and subjective experience, just like your first time, so I don’t need or want to hear the lurid details of how getting ripped a new one felt like.

But all jokes aside, pregnancy is a wonderful and magical experience. Even on my worst day, I would still do it all over again. And despite the several drawbacks, there are also numerous perks. For example, being pregnant makes strangers smile at you, which is a nice change from being flipped off. You usually get to cut in line when people pity what gravity is doing to you. And the most rewarding and wonderful perk of all is feeling a little baby move around inside you. Save for the rib kicking, I can’t help but smile when I feel that little bundle move around, elbowing me in my organs and dignity.

Heel Thyself

Stilettos, pumps, platforms and “come penetrate me now” shoes. If you’ve ever had a flair for the feminine, then you’ve got one or a hundred of these babies lurking in your closet. Yet even though they look hot, one cannot negate the fact that many soles that don these instruments just don’t know how to maneuver in them. And if you can’t glide like a swan, then just leave the heels and do your back, and society, a favor.

There are more than a handful of fashion victims out there. I am always astounded by the sheer number of ladies who wear very high heels to work every day. I always thought that stilettos were only required if your office desk was, in fact, a pole or someone’s lap. Yet there are herds and herds of females that wear pointy devil shoes as part of their professional corporate attire.

The issue arises when those that don’t know how to walk in heels do so anyways. And there are many women who are completely unaware of what they look like. There are those that hunch forward, to try to avert the pressure on the ankles. The result is that they walk looking like they are about to charge you, kind of like a raging bull-ess. Then there are the femme fatales that allow their ankles to sway wildly while they try to resist gravity. Note to you ladies, the only things that should be swinging that much are the sexually adventurous folks out there.  And finally, there are the dames that insist on heels so uncomfortable that their faces are plastered with tears and grimaces akin to a birthing mother. These last set usually scuffle to the bathrooms for relief or just won’t get up at all.

If you look at the anatomy of the heel, it immediately becomes apparent that it was invented either by angry gay men or the Dark Lord himself. At least when they first made the scene, the heel had a little base to even out the impact on your poor feet, but as we can see today, fashion has diminished comfort to the point that some heels rest on atoms for support.

I used to wear heels before my disc. Months after my injury, I remember trying to wear a pair and as soon as that searing pain shot down the nerves of my leg, I kissed those babies good-bye and opted to rely instead on my big personality. However I do certainly understand the appeal, which is why I’m sharing a few tips for the height-addicted.

Tip number one: Keep your back straight. A great way to practice this is to walk around in the privacy of your own home and balance a book on your head. Once you can walk around swiftly without dropping the book, you are ready to take your strut to the general public.

Tip number two: your feet should always be parallel; not turned in nor out. If your feet don’t point straight ahead, not only do you look like you are being examined by a gynecologist while walking but you are also adding unnecessary tension to certain weak points, like your ankles.

Tip number three: start with smaller heels, or wedges. The wedge is my hero, it won’t hurt your back as much and you don’t have to worry about getting your heel stuck in sewage drain covers or ….

Tip number four: If you insist on wearing a pair when you go clubbing, sneak in a pair of foldable Scholl ballerinas in your bag. You’ll make your grand entrance, look astoundingly hot for the first few dances, then when everyone you’ve impressed has strapped on the booze goggles, you can enjoy the evening in the comfort of flats.

If you just can’t seem to manage any of these, keep the heels for turning on your lover in the safety and vicinity of the bedroom. You’ll still look hot with your legs in the air, and you can spare your spine and bones the pressure. Just make sure you don’t poke out his eye.

 

heels

Yeast the Beast

(A message from a vagina that cares)

With my 36th birthday just around the corner and having been blessed with a womb, I’ve had to contend with a few yeast infections along the road. I can safely report that the experience is always cumbersome, and to date I am still vague about why this phenomenon occurs. However, my most recent affliction has shed some interesting light on this vaginal dweller, and I happily pass on the wisdom to you.

My doctor solemnly told me “it’s an aggressive yeast.” I was unaware they had personalities but apparently, this time I was unlucky enough to be paired with a real grouch. And anyway, what did aggressive mean? Did it push other weaker yeasts out of the way? Did it have a short temper? Did it yell and punch holes in walls like beefed up steroid slurping dudes?

She also ordered me to stay off the sugar, saying the sweets irritated the yeast. “I’m not applying it topically!” I yelled back, indignantly. Apparently, my aggressive womb-mate shared a propensity for sugar, which literally made it flourish, kinda like us humans gaining weight when binging on the stuff. Well, at least we had that in common. Maybe beast wasn’t all bad. It obviously had good taste.

After prescribing a host of medicines for every single orifice, she threw a box of probiotics at me. I was bewildered. “These will help, having bad gut flora is sometimes tied to infections.” There. At least I learnt something new from this unfair liaison. It seems having the beast was akin to being trapped in a bad relationship. Everything I said or did could inflame the situation and I had to be very cautious until I was able to make my silent escape.

“So why does this happen from time to time?” I asked. A valid question; every single site on the topic lists reasons as vague as the number zero. But I soon learned that the beast’s dating criteria truly was vast. Things such as synthetic clothing, stress, a fever, those 11 donuts you nibbled on before din din, all or one of these could render you fatally attractive to a single desperate yeast.

Thus, if you are paired with an aggressive yeast, follow these simple steps to freedom (also effective on leech-like SOs): act natural but silently slip it medication. Once it is heavily drugged, wait patiently for it to fall dormant. During this time avoid the sugar; it can sense its presence. Finally, make your exit, and proceed with a happy and prescribed-medication free life.