Eeons ago we were sitting at our friends' dinner table in Boston. We had been trying to conceive for more than six months, and I said that while I wanted to lose weight, I'd rather wait until I was pregnant so I could take prenatal yoga. I didn't want to start a different exercise class because I was sure I'd have to cancel it very soon.
Our friend Chris, ignoring the social rule that you're always supposed to poo-poo your friends' references to their own fatness, said maybe I should lose weight first and then try to get pregnant. Well, he didn't know that I was a whoppin' 34 and had no time to lose at all. I was going to get pregnant RIGHT AWAY.
A year and some months later, I joined a gym. I was still not pregnant, and I had gained more weight from my year of hormone (horror/moan) treatments. The gym featured a WONDERFUL aerobics class in the 1980s Olivia Newton-John style, the kind of exercise I'd been raised on. I loved it. Loved it loved it loved it.
And so I went six times and then got pregnant. Maybe Chris knows what he's talking about.
After a few months, when the dust and nausea settled and I stopped being so bedridden, I found a prenatal yoga class at the hospital center a mile from my house, where all my prenatal care happens anyway. I quickly signed up. Very excited. It was scheduled for every Tuesday morning for six weeks.
Week 1. I had a "quick" ultrasound appointment that morning in the high-risk doctor's office, right around the corner from where the yoga was to be held. When I ended up vomiting on myself on the exam table during the ultrasound, I decided it was not a good morning to do any upside down poses that day. I skipped the class.
Week 2. I wanted to load up on breakfast so I wouldn't be hungry/weak during the class. Three minutes before I had to leave the house, I wolfed down my huge number of vitamins. Gagging on the eighth pill or so, I threw up on the floor of three rooms of our house. Every room downstairs except the bathroom, in fact. I opted against going to yoga right after that. Instead, I sat on the couch and cried.
Week 3. I had a regular OB check up at the hospital before the yoga class. It was about an hour of activity from the time I walked out my door to the end of the appointment. The yoga class would start in five minutes, and I was just waiting on the note from my doctor that said I was healthy enough to attend yoga. (I had not quite made it to pick this note up before either of the previous classes, for the reasons stated above).
As the receptionist handed me the folded letter documenting my physical competence, I swooned with weakness. I sat in the doctors' lobby eating my goldfish crackers and drinking my water, until I was strong enough to go to the Starbucks in the hospital lobby and get some apple juice. That was finally enough sugar and starch to allow me to take the elevator one more floor down, to my car in the parking lot. I drove a mile home and collapsed for the next three hours. Yeah, no yoga. Noga.
There are three more yoga classes. We'll try again Tuesday. Or maybe we won't.
This has been a vigorous blogging session. I think I have to lie down.