Like a good little fit girl, I go to the gym twice a week. Well sometimes less than that depending on life. I usually go before work which is nice to get it out of the way first thing in the morning. So since I've just rolled out of bed and tackled three small children in an effort to get them dressed for school, no matter how cute my workout clothes are, I feel like a slob.
Most of the time, with just my luck, the skinniest, prettiest girl in the world is on the treadmill near me. Which would be great if I were skinny and pretty too, but at 6 a.m., I've got more of the tired mommy who was up 2 times in the night because her 5 year old had a nightmare and a 3 year old's pull-up leaked look going on.
Then I go to the locker room. And as I get ready to shower, I am reminded that the skinny, pretty girl (who is wearing make-up btw) does not have stretch marks on her stomach. I look down, and see those ugly scars every day. I was not blessed with the great elasticity that other moms were, and while my stomach is more on the flat side than other moms, I won't be wearing a bikini again. I struggle to wrap the towel around me as quickly as possible so that no one catches a glimpse of what I am ashamed of.
As I get out of the shower and start to get dressed, the girl is back. This time, she is drying her hair at the mirror. She is really tan. I mean, like fake-and-baked-maybe-15-minutes-too-long tan. She is kind of orange. And her face, oh! no wonder she came to the gym in full make-up. She has wrinkles! She spends 10 minutes blow drying her hair, which kind of looks a little frizzy and dried out. She then labors with applying more make-up than I've owned in my whole life. She teases her hair some more, then puts on the tightest shirt and pants ever. She either works at a hair salon or Victoria's Secret, because I have no idea who dresses like that at 7 a.m.
Why is she trying so hard? I wonder. What's her story? The writer in me likes to imagine. No ring, so no husband. Any kids? I doubt a single mom would be at the gym before school. Why all the make-up? Why the long time spent shaping her hair just so? Who is she trying to impress? Herself? Maybe, I think to myself, I'm not the only one unhappy with how I look. Maybe we are more alike than it seems. Even the prettiest girl can feel ugly some times.
I steal another glance at my stomach. You know, the one that carried twins to almost 37 weeks, and if I hadn't been induced, I'm sure I would have carried them to term. The same stomach that grew as my babies grew, and held 7 pounds of pure joy, then 11.4 pounds of double that joy. Sure, it's stretched and grew (and will never be the same again), but it kept those babies safe and warm for 9 months.
I shouldn't be ashamed. I need to wear my stretch marks like the badge of motherhood they are.
I need to be comfortable with me.
I need to be comfortable with me.
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