Pregnant with Thoughts About Being a Woman
There is a plum tree outside my window and it is currently riddled with white blossoms. Sometimes when a gust of wind has enough umph behind it, the petals go into a flurry. Scattering in the lemon grass and reminding me of snow I barely know. It is beautiful and delicate and I keep thinking about how soon the petals will all be gone, there will be leaves and eventually fruit ripe for the picking. Then the tree will look dead for a long while. But all of a sudden it is springtime again.
It is a funny thing to find yourself in a yoga class that has a curriculum designed for pregnant women when you yourself are not inflicted with a future somebody that expands your abdomen. Something I have now come to experience because I walked into the wrong room due to vague instructions and noticed my mistaken entrance at an inopportune time.
The room was rectangular with mats lined up against the long side walls, with the center being open. We started on our backs doing some intentional breathing. Our Yoga Teacher instructed us to sit up and face each other. We were supposed to say our name. (That is fine I have one). How we are feeling. (Also fine because I am a human with a body). And lastly we were to declare how far along we are. (I did not have anything to add to that point of introduction).
It was then the bumps and future somebodies became a drowning feature in this room. I felt like I just got caught with my pants down, and the introductions started on the other side of the room directly opposite of me, putting me to be the last person to introduce myself and explain I am zero weeks along and I don’t know how I ended up here.
The first woman to introduce herself was angelic. She had a smooth voice, perfect skin, and a huge bump that somehow only made her look thinner. She went for a swim that morning and has been feeling great at thirty something weeks. Then a few pregnant women later there was one mother that kept touching her bump with her left hand. I found it impossible to ignore her boulder of a wedding ring. Then there was a real woman with hair that looked like it was combed through with her fingers during the work day to alleviate minor stresses amidst general ineptness by fellow co-workers. She explained how she had a day, that was not particularly bad or great, just work had to be done. She came straight to this class after said work day and she was really happy to be here. She seemed like the first real person. Someone I would actually know, not someone who lives in a Cole Valley townhome and has an agenda of walks that are an excuse for gossiping about people they went to Stanford with.
The circle of bumps and statements of how many weeks came closing in on me. I thought about lying, saying I was pregnant, as to not embarrass my distraction that caused me to walk into this yoga class. I thought about how pregnant I would be. How I would look liberated because I am younger and lack a rock on my left ring finger. It was finally my turn to say, “Hi, my name is Caroline, and….”
I went with the honest avenue, because it felt like if I were to lie and say I am pregnant, God Almighty would strike me immaculately with a baby I had no part in making. I explained how I think I found myself in the wrong class. How I lack a bun in the oven.
The room erupted in the most welcoming laughter. It was not scary. After all, these women committed to giving up their bodies to share another life. It was then, I felt like I was missing out. They all have this equally singular, yet unifying experience of body, of being a woman, and experiencing a different view on life. They get to grow and cultivate a person. While, I am just a twenty three year old who gets to have my bed to myself.
As I sat in that circle of round bellied women, I began thinking about a lot of things. Like how it is a funny thing to be a girl and then a woman and then become a lady–and hopefully no one ever calls me mam. I thought about how a huge part of womanhood is giving. Our bodies. Our features. Our time. The round bellied women who spoke about how they felt swollen and tired and how they have heartburn made me realize that all my thoughts concerning my own body are all external forces that erupt from my internal existence. The private place that sometimes comes to visit when you are wet from a shower facing your bodily form in the steam fogged mirror. It feels as though my body sometimes never belongs to me. It belongs to standards and the preconceived notions of how I wished it looked and what I should be fertilizing and watering it with. Eventually, it could belong to the future peoples that would grow inside of me. It feels like my womanly body is always stuck on a cockeyed receiving end that has to give things right back. Everything is giving and succumbing and it is fine. Taking care of things and washing the sheets. And the fact that my mother did this four times is utterly baffling and amazing. It finally slapped me across the face how different it is to be a woman as opposed to a man. I recognize how obvious and trite and overstated it is but, to exist as a woman is not a singular linear one track mind. We are in constant flux. Existing both in the ebb and the flow. The essence of womanhood was so palpable in that rectangular room. It was something that only exists for us (women), and of course men will never get it. It is not so much about gender identity or gender theory, but this almost tribal feeling I came to face. A sisterhood, not of traveling pants, but one of body. We blossom, lose our petals, grow, bear fruit, and if the timing is right do it all over again.
Eventually, I made my exit and I was sad to leave. The past few weeks I have not been able to escape thinking about my “future.” My future as a woman. That place of my life that does not exist. I have been tripping over where my life will be rooted or if it will ever feel stable. There was a day where I saw three couples all walking the same block ignorant of everything else except their other half. Afterwards, I saw three people wearing head to toe red outfits, they were not on a sports team, just three strangers who woke up on the red side of the bed. Then there was the red heart shaped balloon flailing through the sky, and a yoga teacher wearing a sweater with a heart on it. Is love actually all around? Or am I just a nutjob? I declare I am far from lonely, I am fulfilled, but why was my brain choosing to recognize and string along this pattern of couples, the color red, and hearts? Valentine’s was a month ago and I was in Italy. Saint Patricks Day was two weeks ago and I am in San Francisco.
Everything feels untethered. I feel untethered. I feel young and hopeless and romantic and confused. Regardless of it all, I ended up doing the brave thing and going to the correct yoga class fifteen minutes late. All I can do is just try to not be a stick in the mud.
