I always show Dave my blogs before I post them. He gives great feedback, plus I want to make sure I haven’t crossed the “too personal” line with him. Considering he was fine with me publishing a play-by-play of our baby-making efforts, he may not even have a line. But I like to check.
Anyway, it kind of backfired on me this week when I showed him the new webpage I added called “Stuff I Write.” I needed an image, so I used a photograph of myself at a book party and I showed it to Dave. That’s when things got weird.
Dave: “Whoah,” uttered with the same intention, if not the intonation, of Joey Lawrence on Blossom. Long pause, lots of staring. “How long ago was that taken?”
Me: “2009. Three years ago. Right around when you met me. Remember?”
He continued to gape as if at a perfect stranger.
Dave: “Look at your arm!”
Here’s where I’ll treat you to a before and after so you can play along at home.
The unfair part is, three years ago when I was apparently ripped, I was doing measly 5-pound curls at the gym like a puss. Now I toss my 20-pound daughter into the air to make her laugh. I carry her inside a 10-pound car seat with a diaper bag slung over my shoulders up and down stairs like it’s nothing. Somebody needs to tell my arms.
Me: “Yeah, well, when we were first dating, you used to do push-ups!” (I don’t care one way or the other, but the best defense is a good offense.)
Dave: “That’s true. But mostly I just flexed when you were around.”
Dave whipped off his shirt and demonstrated how he can change the entire shape of his torso with posture and strategic clenching.
Me: “That’s a real talent you have there.”
Dave: “I know.”
I wondered if I could flex my way into a strapless dress sometime soon. And then I went to sleep feeling strangely jealous of this other woman. Who is me. In 2009.
But you know what? Screw that.
Of course I look different than before I had a baby. I had a baby! And I continue to have a baby. Exercise, eating right, beauty rest, blow drying, high heels and non Lyrca clothing do not currently exist in my world, and why should they? I already snared a hot guy with fake pecs.
And sure, that chick in the short shorts (not just for daytime anymore!) had time to work out and get Mystic tans. She could even stay out past 10 o’clock. But I don’t want her life anymore. I like mine. Being frumpy is like a uniform I wear proudly for my very important though not lucrative job at the 24-hour diner & launderette I call home.
When the baby years are past, I’ll probably get it together and start wearing makeup and supportive undergarments again. Until then, this is me, honey. Deal with it. We can still totally make out.