Yep, it seems some things just won't change when pregnant, being the first or the nth time (as far as I am concerned, "n" will most likely stopped at two, which, admittedly, is not very significant statically-wise).
My run the other day, for instance. Here am I, having a good session. The hard breathing from the first weeks is gone. The pace does not seem excruciatingly slow. The weather is nice, and, as far as running on the pavement goes, this could be very much worse indeed: I am running by the Annecy lake, which is pretty cool city running in my book.
I am approaching one of the canals crossing town from the lake to the river and justifying Annecy's nickname of Venice of the Alps, as I see a pretty big crowd standing by the bridge. In normal circumstances, I might be tempted to curse those people who are standing in the way and going to provoke - oh, no - a drop in my average pace. But then again, these days, I am pregnant, so a) not that bothered by average pace anyway, b) pretty chilled out (for those who may think that I am a b*** when not pregnant, I admit I made the penultimate sentence up : the days I was systematically obsessed by average pace are long gone).
I hear the music as I get closer, and not only am I not going to worry about human traffic jams and snail-like pace,but it looks like I may even be tempted to stop and join in the crowd.
Turns out there is a small event taking place, with old wooden boats out on the canal and people in period costumes playing folk music from the boats. It is all cheerful and unassuming, the musicians are clearly having fun, people are watching and clapping, I feel - how embarassingly sappy for someone who, for long, proudly called herself a cynic - a warm fuzzy feeling spreading inside me.
And suddenly, that's it, I am crying.
So here you go. If it were not for the slightly shorter breathing, for the slower pace, for the breast making me look more like a brunette Pamela Anderson than like Paula Radcliffe, for the unmistakably rounder belly, this would have given it away. If I can cry in front of total strangers clapping while listening to folk music, there cannot be any doubt left : I am very pregnant indeed.
I am approaching one of the canals crossing town from the lake to the river and justifying Annecy's nickname of Venice of the Alps, as I see a pretty big crowd standing by the bridge. In normal circumstances, I might be tempted to curse those people who are standing in the way and going to provoke - oh, no - a drop in my average pace. But then again, these days, I am pregnant, so a) not that bothered by average pace anyway, b) pretty chilled out (for those who may think that I am a b*** when not pregnant, I admit I made the penultimate sentence up : the days I was systematically obsessed by average pace are long gone).
I hear the music as I get closer, and not only am I not going to worry about human traffic jams and snail-like pace,but it looks like I may even be tempted to stop and join in the crowd.
Turns out there is a small event taking place, with old wooden boats out on the canal and people in period costumes playing folk music from the boats. It is all cheerful and unassuming, the musicians are clearly having fun, people are watching and clapping, I feel - how embarassingly sappy for someone who, for long, proudly called herself a cynic - a warm fuzzy feeling spreading inside me.
And suddenly, that's it, I am crying.
So here you go. If it were not for the slightly shorter breathing, for the slower pace, for the breast making me look more like a brunette Pamela Anderson than like Paula Radcliffe, for the unmistakably rounder belly, this would have given it away. If I can cry in front of total strangers clapping while listening to folk music, there cannot be any doubt left : I am very pregnant indeed.
