My favorite boys!
(Backstory: One on the right just won a trophy for his Pikachu pinewood derby car and the one on the left is having a meltdown because he didn’t win anything. It’s tough being the second child. Of course the third kid, on the far left, cared about nothing but the cake.)
Controversy is Chris Brown’s middle name. The rapper is a master of taking a bad situation and spinning it to look even worse. (Everyone remember the time he beat the crap out of then-girlfriend Rihanna? And then got a tattoo of her battered face on his neck?? Okay, good.) To say I’m not a fan would be an understatement. But this past week he gave an interview that made my heart break for him. He told The Guardian that he “lost his virginity” when he was eight years old to a 14- or 15- year old girl. (Not even going to put the full quote here as it kinda makes me want to barf. Feel free to click through to read it though.)
When I first saw this picture of Lea-Ann Ellison doing CrossFit a mere two weeks before her due date my initial thought was man, I miss my pregnancy boobs. (That’s about all I miss about pregnancy though. Okay, the boobs and the weird alien kicks that felt like my babies were doing slow-motion roundhouses. For me, just thinking about my pregnancies makes me hot and nauseous. Apparently I’m a sympathetic puker… with myself.)
The longer I looked at Ellison’s many impressive pictures, the more conflicted I became. The truth is that I don’t know how to feel about her being pregnant and doing CrossFit because I still don’t know I feel about me being pregnant and doing CrossFit (and kickboxing and weight lifting and running and a number of other intense exercises).
Pregnancy is not an illness. It’s a motto we hear thrown around a lot these days and while they’re quite correct – there’s nothing pathological about gestating – let’s not pretend that pregnancy doesn’t massively (hah!) change things in your body. At least it did for me:
Forget night swimming REM, night running has always been my favorite nocturnal sport. There’s just something about running through an unlit night, the inky blackness completely obliterating my body until I feel incorporeal. Dispossessed. Airborne. In the sense of flying, yes, but also that I feel born of air. I’m elegant in ways that I never can be in daylight. I’m light and quick through the dark, a sure-footed sprite.
That is until I trip over a tree root and face plant.
Oh and did I mention that I like to do my night running set to Orff’s “Carmina Burana” or Edvard Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite? (Lie: It’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King”. Of course it is.) Very very loudly. And with no reflective gear, save the glow of my pale legs? And preferably in the mountains or the forest? It’s the closest I get to real magic.
It’s probably also the closest I get to really putting myself in danger too which is why I’ve not done it in years. And that’s a travesty because I used to love it.