Yes I AM referring to that song by Europe. You can thank me later for putting it in your head. And just because you know you want to, check out the video. Really, between Europe and Dolph Lundgren, the world owes 80s Sweden a massive ‘thank you’.
7km run this morning. Geez it was hard work… getting ready for the run I mean…
Prepare for running in 4°C rainy weather by donning necessary protective clothing… Head band/ ear warmers, 2x sports bras and Lycra running leggings that stretch from armpit to ankle (because dammit, otherwise there ain’t no way my bits are staying in their rightful place), sleeves long enough to prevent fingers from frostbite, shoes that are both comfortable and also resistant to pregnancy-induced-weight-gain-breakage.
Finally get into all the gear. Sadly realise that I need to pee again.
Seriously contemplate NOT peeing because it’s going to take a fair amount of effort to expose the necessary parts. Once Lycra is flush with your pregnant form, it’s pretty hard to budge.
Realise I’ve spent 5 minutes too long thinking about my dilemma. Remove necessary clothing and pee.
Finally get my gear on again after peeing. Consider not running because I’ve already had such a big workout. Headline “Rio 2016 introduces pregnant Lycra wrestling” (maiesiophiliacs eat your heart out). Remind myself how I felt last time after delivery (not running, not weight training) and how it turned me into a psycho hose beast (well, that’s my excuse). That’s all the motivation I need.
Run. Well sort of… more like jogging… jogging like a fat duck. Some dude in a truck slows down to stare at me. I fight the urge to go over, drag him out of his truck, and hurt him. It wouldn’t take much, I would just sit on him until he stopped breathing. Lithe runner chicks repeatedly pass me on the path. I hate them all. Not really. Actually yes, really.
Finish run which all in all felt pretty good. I’m finding I can’t race up the hills anymore and occasionally have to stop to walk for a few seconds, but seriously, I know I can only milk the pregnancy thing for a little while longer, so why not…?
Then we go for our 35 week antenatal check-up. All is well, the girl is tracking right on 50th centile for growth. Which is great because our boy was up near 100th centile for everything. After all, if we have a massive daughter, how they hell will we marry her off?
I’m sitting in the loo at the doctor’s and there’s a sign on the back of the door with an advertisement:
“You’ve spent your whole life looking after other people… Isn’t it time you looked after yourself?”
“Yeah baby!” I thought, in my mind planning a nice soothing pregnancy massage, haircut, mani/pedi…
The ad was for mammograms.
Because nothing says to your body “Girl, I’m gonna take care of you” like clamping your boobs in a vice.