Two weeks ago I experienced one of the more humbling moments of my life thus far.
Against my better instinct (and breaking a promise I’d made to myself while pregnant to never run again), I embarked on an evening jog. I’d been seduced by a gloriously cool evening breeze and the magnificence of sunlight dappling the river.
It wasn’t difficult per se. My muscles were surprisingly compliant and only put up the feeblest of protests. I managed a 2km loop in 15 minutes; just slightly brisker than a brisk walk and a shadow of the pace I used to keep. By the end I was barely panting and genuinely felt quite good and alive.
The problem was that – quite unfortunately – from start till end, I was uncontrollably wetting myself. 15 minutes straight. A full quarter of an hour. Every time my feet hit the gravel a little bit of wee was shaken out of me; think tabasco being agitated out of its bottle. By the time I realised that the growing warmth and damp in my shorts was not, in fact, sweat, it was too late (the route was a loop, remember). In for a penny, in for a pound. On I plodded, aghast and amused and ashamed. A sweet mercy was that my shorts were black and the knowledge of my predicament was confined to just me.
Clearly, my pelvic floor was (is) still reeling from having carried, then ejected, a small human being. Undaunted by the bout of humiliation I tried a jog again two days after. This time, I came prepared in period undies, which are basically adult diapers. As I heaved down the path I had to laugh at how far I’d come from my Lululemon days.
And so the adventures of pregnancy and birth continue. No one day has been the same as the one before it and I’m constantly charting new ground, but for every low moment there is a joy to counter it and for now that is enough to keep me going, even in wee-wet shorts.
Medium Delirium 