For the past eight weeks I’ve been waking up and doing 135 crunches before I do anything else. I pad into the living room at 7:10 a.m., unroll my yoga mat, hook my toes under the hem of our IKEA couch, and crunch, barely awake. I do 15 where my wrists graze the tops of my knees, 15 where my fingertips tap the tops of my feet, and then 15 laying flat, lifting my legs straight up from the hips and lowering them slowly. I do three sets of these 15s. Then I take a shower, go to work, order an egg and cheese from the deli across the street, and house it hunched over at my desk like a shrew.
Then I think about how badly I want a muffin, and then three days out of five, I go get a muffin.
This is my bridal fitness plan.
Crunches. Nachos. Muffins. Pizza. Doubt. Regret. A strange, other-worldly detour to the gym. Cookies. Beer. Crunches. Muffins, now. One-thousand hours of The Voice on demand. Regret. Muffins.
This is my bridal fitness plan.
Let’s back up. It should be noted that for most of my life, I never thought much about fitness, for better or for worse. My metabolism was fast, is what I was told, and I could eat what I wanted without repercussion—even in college, when I’d storm the dining hall like a linebacker and afford myself a 16-course meal composed entirely of fried starches and processed cheese products. I ate McDonalds with bravado (“double-cheeseburger-small-fry-four-piece-mcnugget-oreo-mcflurry, please”), I drank gallons of beer, I only went to the campus gym once—to get a flu shot. And I looked fucking fabulous. I mean fine. I looked fucking fine.
It wasn’t until I moved in with Joe, two winters ago, that it all started to catch up with me and I started to gain the weight I should have been gaining all along, with a vengeance. What can I say? I got quite happy and comfortable, in so many ways, all at once: The anxiety-induced stomachaches that had been plaguing me for a few years prior ceased and my appetite returned, I got a new job and my income increased, and I was finally sharing a home with the man I love, meaning I had someone with great bone structure around to 24/7 condone my visceral hatred of cooking, order delivery with me instead, or meet me at the corner pub after work. It was a recipe for a, ahem, fuller life, and a new dress size.
And sure enough, my jeans stopped fitting. My silhouette… changed, particularly in the stomach, hip and thigh region. A photo of myself in a bikini made my blood run cold. It was all happening. Around the time of our engagement, I’d stopped buying the size of underwear I’d bought literally my entire adult life, and switched to the next size up. My face looked fuller in pictures. It was all happening, and it was happening right around the time that most women hire personal trainers and escape to weight-loss camps to turn themselves into giraffes before their weddings. It’s still happening. How wonderful. How fun! I want to thank irony and bad karma and and all those fucks I fucked off in a past life for this great, great timing.
Of all the infuriating hypocrisies of bridedom, the Get Fit, Bitch commandment has to be the most infuriating. Here you are, during one of the happiest times of your life, a time when you are meant to feel most loved, most yourself, most comfortable in your own skin, and you’re barraged with #sweatingforthewedding hashtags and creepy New York Times trend pieces. Here you are, told by every mag, blog, planner and friend to party it up, guzzle champagne, taste all the cake and try all the menu offerings, and live large, girl!, but also—be in the best goddamn shape of your life, or your dress will explode right at the altar, you lazy and enormous, undeserving wife-whale.
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