September 18th: The Weight of Commitment (and My Pregnant Body)

Today marks our third anniversary, as well as the third time I’ve now been weighed in front of my husband. The first celebration, that of three years together, is an active one. We work hard for these milestones, putting our best energy- even at our emptiest- into so many serious conversations and well-worn routines and surprising decisions and careful plans. The second commemoration is entirely passive. “Step on the scale,” says the nurse at the midwife’s office, and I shuffle over. She slides the weights to the right, then a little more, and a little more. My husband cranes his neck so he can see. I wrinkle up my nose at him, thinking, “What are you doing?” but he’s focused entirely on the numbers, not me. It should be noted that while I’ve never been particularly bothered about my weight, I also spent my early years on a farm and am not unfamiliar with the preparation of livestock for market. The “Ok! Great!” I receive from everyone at the new, higher number is unnerving. I’m proud to be healthy, but I also feel like a prized pet.

As the scale numbers go up, my running slows down. This is not surprising, of course, and I contemplate these changes with curiosity. Even wonder.

Example: This Monday was a perfect fall day, and at 5 am, my mental running checklist indicated an equally perfect run: crisp wind, the sweet, damp scent of turning leaves, quiet streets, good energy, teeth brushed. Check, check, check. I ran for more than an hour, and then, because I was running so slowly- but with such exertion!- I walked. The wonder enters in here because I didn’t feel defeated at all. I also didn’t tell myself, “The next run will be better,” because really: Will it? I don’t know what “better” even means these days, nor do I, admittedly a little on the severe side when it comes to running, care. [I’m typing this with an eyebrow raised, I’m so surprised.] I will probably keep getting slower. And then, because my body is intricately, mysteriously linked to this tiny thing I know I will love very much, I will probably stop running in the winter, my most treasured time to be outdoors. What if it’s icy? What if I lose my balance? So in-tune with my body, I try to imagine not trusting it. The thought is foreign today, but will be less so, perhaps, in a few months.

I started this blog long ago by keeping track of the miles I logged and the number of other runners (and sometimes dogs) I spotted. These days, I measure things differently- in pounds, weeks, trimesters. Perhaps a year from now, on our fourth anniversary, long after I can be bothered about whether or not my teeth are brushed before a run, I will mark time from the arrival of a very small someone. For the time being, though, I observe my growing body, proud of the miles it’s covering. And I celebrate fifteen years of friendship- and three years of marriage- with curiosity and wonder.