I am a Man
by Sarah Teres,
I don’t know when I stopped trying. I think it has been a gradual process. It all started, I think, right around baby number 1, which was seven years ago. It was also 60 pounds and 10 clothing sizes ago. I stopped going to the gym, wearing high heels, and full-face make-up. I just didn’t have the energy to put in the effort. However, I did manage to keep current with the latest in maternity fashion and keep up my hair (color, cut, and even some foils!), waxing, pedicures, facials, and even dental appointments. I also continued to wear lipstick or gloss and mascara. Not a lot of effort, but some. Going “out” was rare, but on those rare occasions, I did manage to pull off some full-face evenings and the occasional high heels.
Then came baby number two. I still wrangled the hair (minus the foils—no time for that nonsense), waxing, and some pedicures in the spring and summer. I still went to the dentist every six months and had an occasional facial. I downgraded my wardrobe completely and, unwilling to part with my “thin” clothes completely, put them in a plastic Rubbermaid bin in the basement—where they still reside, untouched, after three moves to three different states.
Now, with baby number three and a new business, the old gray mare ain’t what she used to be. My basic wardrobe these days is t-shirt and jeans chic. But I don’t want to invest in any fabulous clothes in the size I wear right now because I am still in total denial that I even wear this size. Likewise, I am in total denial that even if I were to attain my old weight, my body will never, ever look like it did pre-pregnancy. The shar-pei-like quality (as in wrinkly dog, not High School Musical character) of my abdominal skin screams “extreme make-over.” The boobs that once rivaled those of Pamela Anderson are now nearly at my waist.
Most days, if I know I won’t be leaving the house except for perhaps a drop-off or pick-up, I’ll skip showering so I can have 20 minutes of extra sleep … unless it’s been a few days and I start to offend even myself. On the other hand, and in my own defense, if I know I am going “out” or will be seen by strangers, I will shower, run a comb through my hair, brush my teeth, and get dressed, even putting on a bra.
Wait a minute. Isn’t this the same routine my husband has had for years, minus the bra?
Clearly, I have become a man. I dress like one, and I’ve let so many beauty regimens go, I might as well be one. It’s just so much easier.
My only comfort is in the belief that I’ll eventually get back to being a woman. Someday. After all, those “thin” clothes are still down in the basement, and I keep meaning to find a way to get back to the gym. I will absolutely get my now gorilla-esque legs (don’t even ask about the bikini line) waxed soon. Really. I mean it! And I’ll get a pedicure, too — just as soon as the warmer weather gets here. I also plan to do something about the new Lily Munster thing I’ve got going with my hair. Heck, I even have a great gift certificate for a facial, which has been gathering dust on my desk. I’ll use it, I swear! Someday. You know, when I have more time.
When people ask me what I’d like for my birthday or Christmas, I can’t help but think that what I could really use is some kind of device, a robot or some sort of special machine, that will tend to me in my sleep without actually waking me up — because I cannot spare one moment of sleep. It would be great to get up in the morning and see my hair and nails done, skin perfect and glowing, legs smooth and shiny, and a pre-pregnancy body underneath the flannel sweatpants.
For now, I’ll just have to be happy with the fact that I manage to brush my teeth every day. Baby steps.
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