Now I live out in the country, small town where you go to the local gym and you are lucky to find a treadmill that works or doesn't have a hole in it. I figured I had better inspect the child care facility prior to blindly dropping off my 8 month old son. I walked into the pristine palace and realized this there was clearly no need to worry. I mean this place actually had those little spray bottles you use to wipe down the exercise equipment post work out... and people were using them. The child care room was just short of a McDonalds play area, only more magnificent and clean. I plopped Brody down and watched him scoot away grabbing for the nearest toy. I knew he would have no troubles.
I scoped out the treadmills and tried to get myself phyched for a six miler. As I began picking up my pace I took in the scenery. I wasn't the only mom there by any means, but suddenly I began to feel like I was a part of that famous sesame street tune "One of these things is not like the other," I began to notice all the other moms dressed in strategically planned work out get-up, full make-up and you could actually see the definition in there arms, legs and booty. My idea of gym attire is a ratty old race shirt, shorts and an old sports bra that more then likely should have been replaced a year ago ( possibly why my boos aren't as perky as theirs either.)
I began to realize how much work it must be just to stay that thin, that defined, that beautiful. Running for me is a place to let go, it's the challenge, it's beating my last time, it's struggling with mind over matter during that last mile. I began to wonder what going to the gym was about for these mom's and I came to one conclusion, it's about the pressure's of being beautiful. I call these women "Fit Mamas."
Fit Mamas are different from Running Mamas. You will always see them in the suburbs, and you start looking for Ken because you are staring at an exact replica of Barbie. They strive to be fit because for them it's about how many hours they logged at the gym that week, and now I can fit into my size two pants ONE week after giving birth. It's not about the sense of accomplishment or the desire to be an athlete. "Fit Mamas," are the true housewives of America and I was in their territory.
Now I have no problem with "Fit Mamas," usually they take one look at me notice I didn't get the memo it was hot pink sports bra day and they leave me be. After my run I picked up Brody from the day care where he was laughing and playing with one of the Fit Mama's children. I looked at Brody with his rugged little camo pants and worn in Robeez and then I looked at the Fit Mam's child with her brand new pink pants and freshly combed hair. Immediately the Sesame street song stated to play in my head once again.
We were off to the market to pick up a few necessities and I noticed there were several Fit Mamas in the Market doing the same. Brody and I cased the isles for baby food and I gave Brody a plastic grocery bag to play with. He squealed with excitement and waved it around as it made a crinkling noise.
I found the baby food and turned my back to Brody to grab a jar, and I felt the Fit Mama's disapproving glare burn into the back of my head. I turned to find a Fit Mama staring at me, bright eyed and in disbelief. Her child was well dressed, slightly older then Brody and had his hands were engulfed her her Coach Diaper Bag. "Are you going to let him swallow that?" she asked me pointing to the plastic bag my son had now started to suck on. She glared at me, not only for thinking I was the worst mother in the world, but my hair was matted to the side of my face from sweat, my nails were rough and unpolished, and Brody may have even had a touch of leftover lunch on his shirt. I could tell she was reliving the nightmare she had read in one of her Parent's Magazines, "Child dies after swallowing grocery bag."
This was the moment where I knew I would forever be a Running Mama because I choose to let my child take a chance, and his hair isn't always combed or just right, I think he might have even ingested a few pieces of kibble a time or two. But because he'll learn to take chances and experience life, my hope is that his road to run will be that much more interesting. He will have life experiences, real ones, and hopefully he won't have to worry about the superficial pressures in life. I stared back at the Fit Mama and replied with a non chalet flip of my hand, "Yes I am, don't worry he swallows entire grocery bags all the time," and even thought I ran six miles that day I felt like I had accomplished so much more.
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