The more I am in a mainstream environment the more I want to retreat back to my little cabin in the woods. Retreat may be too passive – run like heck is likely more appropriate. And Pensacola has not failed me yet, it has me wanting to lace up my running shoes.
This is what I saw as I was driving to my gran’s house the other day, complete with a photo of beautifully sculpted (and airbrushed I’m sure) abs of a presumed “mommy”:
I almost forgot to go when the light turned green.
I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, be disgusted, confused, angry, sad, judgmental, self conscious… and the list goes on.
I didn’t know whether to feel these things for the “mommies” who are lured into the web, the doctors who profit from the self-concious, the marketing team who thought this was a good idea, or the society that has blasted the messages that superficial flaws are unacceptable and imperfect.
So I did a little research on the website of this fine institution offering this beauty by botulism. These are the first words in their attempt to win you over:
“Children add limitless joy to a woman’s life, and there’s not much a mother wouldn’t sacrifice for the sake of her children. But not all sacrifices are truly necessary.”
So if this is the accepted truth, that mama’s would do anything for their babes because the little ones provide more pure and constant joy than one could imagine, remind me again why I need to butcher my belongings – the only thing that is truly mine?
I am not opposed to one taking care of themselves, desiring to have their pre-baby figure back – obviously – but then there are some things that are just absurd. In a country that is supposedly recessing and struggling, it sure does seem that these sorts of options are more and more widely available and even sadder, accepted. And ever sadder, utilized. If you want your shape back, get your butt in the gym, hire a personal trainer, play with your kids, go outside, take a hike, ride a bike, eat better, choose a healthier lifestyle…
But alas, why put forth the effort when there’s the instant gratification of a little slit here, tuck there, and voila! good as new…
It’s called labor because it’s painful and it’s work. And I am proud of my battle wounds. When I work just as hard to get my body back as I did those ten months and one day, I’ll be just as proud as my new battle marks.
And if my baby brings me endless joy – what else matters?
And I, too, will sacrifice almost everything for my son – but I think I’ll hold on to my dignity, thanks.