Mid-life, middle-of-the-road, mid-journey, middle-age…so much interior-ness, with shoulders on both sides. Room for growth. Room for error.
Just room, on all sides, while I’m here in the middle.
Wishing for maternity pants.
I loved being pregnant, and a lot of why leads to the pants. You could get the wide banded kind that slides up and over, creating a sack for your burgeoning belly, or you could get the wide banded kind that stuck like scaffolding, directly under and around the bottom rim of the belly, supportive yet non-intrusive.
Delightful either way.
And now, in my mid-years, my Middle Earth, my stuck-in-the-middle-with-me days, I want those pants.
Because everything upon my person seems to have suffered during travel. Banged up, moved around, seemingly viscous…yup, things are just…lower…
(Except my boobs! Yay me for having the chest of a pre-adolescent my whole life!)
And because my abundant weight, my new inability to eat junk food — because it just doesn’t go away (burgers on my thighs from ten years ago, I’d swear) — and my increasing possessive spirit towards chocolate all bely my youthful interior, I crave the pants.
They comforted; they supported; they indulged my self-pity. I appreciated their efforts.
They were good pants, which, sadly-for-me but with gratitude and good riddance because I was “gonna lose the baby weight,” have gone to Goodwill to assist future new mothers of the planet.
My overalls, however, might have survived the postpartum cut…
Wait…would it look weird, at my age, to stroll into Target and buy a brand new pair of maternity pants? I’d have to lie to anyone gawking and say I was going to be grand-ternal.
And I assure you the new pair would get much more use…years and years of it…like, “Nope, can’t donate those when I’m gone from this orb” kind of use…