Planning is for Suckers

I have been forced against my will to wear a suit today. Apparently because I am such a legal eagle, I must don these oh-so-sophisticated threads. This didn’t used to bother me. In fact, I used to enjoy it. It made me feel strong, savvy - at any moment I was going to walk up those steps from (insert TV legal drama here), pause, turn and say something profound to (insert client, news media, adversary) and leave them quaking in their boots. Lately, however, perhaps because I have to wear a suit more and more, it’s beginning to feel like an annoying chore. And beyond that–I’m beginning to get a tad porky. As I sit here, I can barely breathe, my chest is popping out of my shirt and my pants are suffocating me at the waist. I have been having a pretty constant obsession with my weight these days (OK, who am I kidding? This isn’t exactly new) and I am sure, driving my husband completely insane (who has thankfully never said an unprompted word about it - despite the fact that I have blown up and deflated this past year with as much regularity as a kid’s party balloon). I have told him several times that I didn’t want to try this month, or last month or the month prior because of my weight (I did anyway, however). I site statistics, health issues related to weight, birth defects, labor and delivery complications, hypertension, preeclampsia, gestational diabetes and a higher risk of death for both baby and mother. There’s no guarantee that I will have any of those problems (if I am lucky enough to get pregnant and stay pregnant–not forever, mind you, just the requisite 10 months) and it’s quite possible that I won’t. It’s also possible that I could have some of those problems at a healthy weight. Since we began our "odyssey", I’ve gained about 15 pounds. My husband does not think that my weight is an issue. My sister does not think that my weight is an issue. But I do think that my weight is an issue. Although I do know and understand the formula for weight loss and could write a very thin, unpopular book on the subject (eat less! move more!) I cannot make myself DO IT. I am having trouble motivating myself beyond the momentary delight of cookie dough ice cream (but oh, how I love thee, cookie dough ice cream, with your cookie dough and your ice cream). And so, I complain. And moan. And look sadly at beloved clothes that no longer fit. And I think, should I just try to get pregnant, tubby as I am, and try to lose it later? Should I really MAKE AN EFFORT and try to lose the weight now? Am I ruining my chances of a healthy pregnancy by waiting and waiting? Am I putting myself and an infant at risk at this weight? Am I just trying to avoid something that I am afraid will end badly? When I was in the spring-in-your-steps-twenties, and I thought about having children, I decided that thirty-four sounded like a pretty good age to have children. I would be established in my career, I would have a house (or so I thought), I would likely have spent many years solo with the husband (true). Thirty-four is also the age of my mother when she had me. Despite the fact that many of my classmates thought that my father was my grandfather (he is two years older than my mother), I thought it was pretty cool to have older parents. They were and are very independent. They loved us but didn’t live for us. They had their own lives. Thirty-four seemed pretty good. So, that was the plan. Have a baby at age thirty-four. I am thirty-four. Right now. I will, however, be thirty-five in just a few months. I will never have a child at age thirty-four. And that has not gone by unnoticed.