I am not such a woman and yet I want to down this dog, belly hanging low, content in the knowledge that while no amount of sportily layered tanks can conceal the belly gravity insists on revealing I am among friends. Fellow travelers on the no inversions train. Yoga paradise.
Except, in such classes, they ask -- they always ask -- how far along are you? And sure, I could chirrup "Oh, 15 weeks! Coo! Happy baby babble words!" in a falsely high pitched singsong, a hand perched protectively over my empty protrusion like it's serving a purpose just by hovering atop the Miracle (not) Within (tm).
But I do not feign pregnancy. I don't need to, usually. So, instead of posing like the child I'm not bearing, I sit it out.
And that's okay. There are yoga videos and sparsely populated classes. I'll muddle through. And if that fails, I always *can* fake it. It's not much but it's something.
As a friend pointed out over lunch today, it could be worse. For this poor pal, flat of belly, cannot even pretend to belong in such a class. If one of her expecting girlfriends goes to prenatal yoga and she wants to tag along, she can't. Because it's never okay to respond to a well intentioned "how far along are you?" by saying "2 weeks?" or musing about the efficacy of protection. In short, she's screwed. And not in the way that earns you a nine month pass to prenatal yoga.