The only way I know I’ve worked hard is if sweat falls from my ponytail. On good days, my ponytail feels like a dripping faucet down my neck and absorbed into the back of my sports bra.

Depending on the song that rolls onto my iPhone, it can make the distance and time shorter. Bruno Mars is good for the journey. Noah Cyrus is not. That fucking Noah Cyrus can ruin my day, because I feel bad for Noah Cyrus. What is it like to sound like a dollar version clone of your older sister, riding her coattails? Have you no shame Noah? I refocus my concentration and look at the screen and digital gauges, like a pilot at the helm of a cockpit. I carefully analyze the instruments and dials. How is the heart rate? What is my current speed? How many minutes until I hit the next mile? Are we on target for a 45 minute mark at 5k? When I distrust the information, I’ll take a glance at my wrist. My carefully customized Fitbit tells me I’m doing worse, and suddenly the Fitbit is my enemy. Once I hit 3.10 miles on any gauge, I grab my phone and take a snapshot for the Instagram in my mind. I hop off the elliptical machine.

The solid floor always feels like it’s moving funny. Balance is not my friend at this moment, or these days. I try to look like nothing is wrong to anyone else who isn’t looking in the room. For these 45 minutes, I try to pretend I am not what I am. I can hang out with anyone else in this gym. I head back up to my apartment.

I strip off my clothes and head into the shower. I try not to look at myself in the mirror. I am now the pilot of this shower. I look at the digital dial on the showerhead. 108 degrees is perfect. I dip my head into the running water. NYC robs you when it can, even in water pressure. It takes me longer that it has ever in my life to wash anything on my body. My hair has grown longer and thicker and takes more shampoo than I have been accustomed. My arms can barely reach parts that only months ago were so easy to reach. Washing my legs and my feet leaves me often times winded when the blood rushes quickly to my head. Considering only moments ago, I felt like a completely different person. That was before stepping into this tub. I shut the water off and grab my towel. It never fits the way it used to around my body.

I look into the mirror and grab the No. 7 face brightening serum. “You don’t need more than a dime sized amount and face before body,” I remind myself. Cause on bad days, the body before face can ruin my day. I had watched a commercial in London that showed clinical trials proved a youthful appearance if used for a year. I’m on month three. After inspecting the lines on my forehead, I swear they are disappearing. Or maybe I just don’t care so much anymore. Or maybe my eyesight is going. Either way, something is working.

I take off my towel and there it is. A swollen belly, with a bellybutton I know not well. “Is tomorrow the day I get stretch marks?” I grab the Palmer’s Cocoa Butter crème and squeeze a generous amount. Like I’m Paula Deen putting mayonnaise in a batch of chicken salad amounts, into the palm of my hand. In deliberate and well practiced circles I thank my lucky stars that today is not the day, I put on a new pair of underwear, pull on a pair of leggings and my favorite maternity tank top over my stomach. I’m ready for the day. The score? Elizabeth 1: Pregnancy: 0