So, I went for a doctor’s visit the other day because I’ve been having trouble with kidney stones (oh my God, have you ever) and after walking through the door and checking in, I realized, with a sinking feeling, that I’d have to hop on the scale, since it was my first visit to my primary care physician since I had my baby – almost three months ago. I didn’t need to get on that scale. I know how much I weigh. I don’t bug about it, because it’s my business and I’m not going to rattle my own cage over something that’s going to work itself out anyhow, so I did it to placate the nurse, and for the sake of “tracking healthy weight” within my medical record. You get it.
With a sigh, I heaved myself up on the unforgiving digital (!) devil and shot an apologetic glance out of the corner of my eye as the impassive nurse penciled in a number that made me roll my eyes. She didn’t even say anything, but then, she didn’t have to, because I said it all: “You know I don’t normally weigh this much but I gave birth just ten-and-a-half short weeks ago and I had a c-section, so duh, like, obviously sit-ups were out for awhile and you know things have been busy -” and I stopped. I stopped and I shut the hell up. Because really, why did I owe this lady (whom I didn’t even know) an explanation about the three meaningless numbers that popped up on the office scale? Why did I owe any explanation to anyone about the weight I’d gained during my (very well-fed) pregnancy? It was nobody’s business but my own, and the fact that I’d caved to the pressure of “Oh my God, she must think I’m a lazy heifer” really disappointed me and I came to a realization: we’re all being conditioned to be the same Gisele Bundchen-type when, in reality, not all of us are.
Later, I got to thinking about how poor Jessica Simpson must feel, having to uncomfortably laugh off her pregnancy weight gain in every single interview and in every single photo shoot she’s done since announcing her fetus-carrying earlier in the year. And you know what I thought? I thought, IT’S NOT FAIR. What the hell do I (or Jessica Simpson) owe to anyone? I mean, were you there rubbing the knots out of my back when cramps practically destroyed my muscles? Did you turn on the nightlights when I had to pee (sixteen times) every night? Were you holding my hand when I was told that I needed that emergency c-section? No, you weren’t. So why you feel you have any right to discuss how many damn pounds I put on while I was carrying either one of my children is beyond all comprehension, and I’ll bet that Jessica probably feels the same – she’s just too polite to say so.
Jessica Simpson is probably the most real, most down-to-earth celebrity going, and in the day and age of celebrities gaining twelve pounds during their pregnancy (7-8 allotted for the baby and 4-5 specially reserved for placenta, water weight, breast swelling and pure pigging out you little swine, you), it was a travesty that – heaven forbid! – Jessica Simpson experienced what your average woman experiences at least once during their 2.4 lifetime pregnancies: a bit of weight gain that has nothing to do with baby and all to do with an unverified excuse to eat what you want. Honestly, do you know how many things come up when you Google “Jessica Simpson pregnancy weight gain”? A TON. And most of the headlines sound like this:
Pregnant Jessica Simpson’s Weight Gain Bashed
Jessica Simpson Gains Excessive Weight During Pregnancy
Has Jessica Packed On Too Many Pregnancy Pounds?
Jessica Simpson’s Excessive Weight Gain Has Doctors Worried
Oh, okay, I see – women are supposed to feel like failures if they go above and beyond the 25-35 pound recommended weight gain during pregnancy, is that right? Come on.
You know what I’m sick of? The thinly-veiled condescension for pregnant “fatties” disguised behind a false layer of “concern” for the mother’s well-being, her risk for gestational diabetes, whether or not the children will have ADD in ten years because mom packed on the pounds while she was carrying him and how
pregnancy obesity is driving your health insurance rates. You know what? Get over yourselves and mind your damn business. I’d like to see how some of these non-famous, non-personal-chef-having, non-eighty-grand-costing-home-gym-owning childless average women (and men! MEN!) react when they see what can happen to your body during a time of complete upheaval should they have to go through it themselves.
Maybe – just maybe – their tunes will be a bit little different then, hey?