They walk among us. They appear without warning. They may not resonate with all of us, but to those with whom they do, it is perhaps the rarest form of beauty that the eye can see. Unicorns launch themselves head-first into lava pits over regret of their comparative lack of majesty. You’ve already read the title, so you know I’m talking fit moms.
What is a fit mom? Depending on your viewpoint, it is either a mother who has done a magnificent job raising her offspring, or a mother who is physically stunning. A mom can be both these things, and I’ll address each of them, but my focus skews towards the latter.
My brother and I get pleasure from finding new or interesting ways of describing things that we observe. Call them inside jokes or extensions of our secret twin language developed in the womb. Sometimes it comes from inventing new pronunciations of words, and sometimes it comes from reverting back to grade school maturity.
One phrase we’ve been known to bounce around is “She’s fit!” as a way to describe a woman who catches our attention. I’m not claiming that we coined the term (we didn’t), and admit it is a rather vague proclamation. It could mean she’s an overall great gal or is relationship material. It could also mean that you think her curves are so out-of-this-world that Richard Dreyfuss sculpts them in his mashed potatoes. It’s not necessarily rooted in lewdness. It’s just a fun way of stating to each other an interest in a woman while keeping it brief.
I don’t know what it is exactly, but I find it particularly pleasing when I see a mother in this context, a “fit mom”. It brings a smile to my face seeing a woman out in the wild being active with her children when, perhaps for physical and possibly sexist reasons, I wouldn’t expect her to be a mother just by looking at her. I don’t think it’s any deeper than that. It has nothing to do with breastfeeding envy, I’ll tell you that much. Aggressively gnawed nipples don’t do a thing for this guy. I don’t know why I felt the need to share that, but it’s out there now.
Part of the attention surely comes out of the respect that I have for moms in general. There is lots of heavy lifting involved when it comes to being half of a parenting team. I was apparently a pretty good kid, but I still did my share of putting my mom through her paces. I think of all the times she had to drag me crying my way out of the toy aisles at Zellers because she didn’t want to spoil me, or the fuss I’d make about some home-cooked meal because it wasn’t marketed by the one clown that (for some reason) didn’t creep me out. To deal routinely with these illogical, pint-sized annoyances, and somehow find a way to raise them to become respectable and moral adults, is highly commendable. Anyway, as unfitting as it may or may not seem, I want to keep my mother out of this. I’ll honour her properly on Mother’s Day when I’m not busy lusting after what are most likely unattainable women.
That brings me to the following point. I can see meeting a single mom in the online dating community, but if you see one out in the real world, it brings up uncertainty. The primary reason that meeting a mom for the purposes of dating would be difficult is what is (most likely) the higher probability that she isn’t single. Even if you factor in divorce rates, I’m guessing it would be at least twice as likely that the woman has a boyfriend if not a husband. If there was legitimate interest, what is a poor boy (me, not her theoretical son) to do?
I saw a prime example of one when grocery shopping a few weeks ago. She was pretty, which was notable off the bat. Seeing that she had a kid with her didn’t really phase me, but seeing he was well behaved may have helped. I’ve never actually seen bratty children making a big scene at my local store, but I conveniently forgot this fact when assessing the situation. I’ve read places that grocery stores are a good place to meet women. I’m not sure if there is such thing as a good place to meet women, actually. I’m pretty sure I’m just remembering that from a Seinfeld episode, which is not the best source for dating advice.
In another circumstance, I’d want to approach a woman like her. Out of my league possibly, if you believe in that sort of thing, but I had the urge nonetheless. Then my self doubt kicked in. How would I expect the conversation to go? I’m no fan of stock pickup lines, yet nervousness may bring out the worst in me.
Me: “It’s real nice of you to take your younger brother shopping with you.”
Her: (uncomfortable giggle) “No, he’s my son.”
Me: “Yeah, I had a feeling, but even though we aren’t in the frozen food aisle, I felt like I needed an icebreaker.”
Her: (slightly more uncomfortable giggle)
Me: “Because sometimes you need to literally break through the ice to grab that last bag of peas.”
Her: “Yeah, I got it.”
Me: “.. and if that’s the case, someone really ought to tell the store manager to run a defrost!”
Her: “Well, look at the time! Better beat the rush to the checkout line.” (quickly paces away)
Me: “But your cart’s empty….” (lowers head in disappointment, then walks to the snack aisle for some comfort Zesty Cheese – flavoured Doritos)
I’m not a religious man, but those among you may feel my fascination would violate the biblical commandment “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s spouse”, whatever the number or exact phrasing may be. How the heck am I supposed to control my own thoughts? My actions I can control, but not my thoughts. There are plenty of worse thoughts you can have besides how sexy some dude’s wife is. “When does the next Adam Sandler movie come out?” springs to mind.
I’m not an active guy on social media. If I’m completely honest, I mainly use Facebook to keep track of what bands are coming to town. If I had more of an online presence, I’d love to champion some sort of #FitMom movement. Sure, it might be because I’m a drooling pig, but I find this label more respectful than the widely used MILF acronym. MILF is far too awkward to explain to someone not familiar with the expression, and a danger to throw around to those who are. One man’s intended compliment could be one woman’s grounds for a restraining order (or a fit dad’s excuse for testing out his fit fists).
I envision an ongoing Twitter or Instagram feed based around a fit mom theme. I’m not saying that it wouldn’t be super creepy, but I’m sure I’m not the only one that would be interested by these stately creatures. I’m used to doing the blog thing by now even though my rate of output is a bit on the slow side. I could always start a new site to track and inform the world on my findings. This would counter some of the more off-putting images one can find on places like that Walmart blog, as I’ll make this as classy and tasteful as possible. Submissions will be welcome with open arms, but the important thing is that we all need to be smart mom watchers (yeah, that does sound creepy).
How are we to know if a woman is a #FitMom? Would seeing a woman jogging with a stroller be enough to qualify? Seemingly, but there are several factors at play. She could be a nanny trying to multitask, running with a child as she completes some errands. Should that qualify? Keep in mind that the kid might have more attachment to the nanny than her own biological parents.
You could also be witnessing a baby-napper on the run. There may not be that much malicious intent involved. This is just a desperate woman who’ll do anything to win #FitMom status if only for a few brief minutes while the decidedly less-fit parents pursue her in a vehicle that the caregiver, with a wage below living standards, had no prayer of ever affording. Still, this act should be unforgiveable. Nobody should be deceitfully earning #FitMom props, even if they were born to wear yoga pants.
Did we even take a look in the stroller? She could be pushing a honey dew melon with a Sharpie face, for all we know. #FitMom labels cannot be bought. Well, I guess money has to change hands when it comes to adopting, so that’s an obvious exception. It has to be a human child that is being adopted. I’m not going to leave a loophole where you can adopt a highway and be in the running. Besides, if the best chance for quality time with him is during rush hour, it’s safe to say you’d be in no mood for that game of catch.
As the stroller example shows, there is no way to verify you are a #FitMom beyond a shadow of a doubt. We’ll have to settle on you being seen doing something motherly with your child. Remember: You can’t spell “mother” without “other”. The kid has to enjoy it, too. No crybabies aloud! I’ll let that rule slide if the photo is of you feeding your kid his or her vegetables. It’s that type of activity that is only acceptable by a parent. In some countries, forcing veggies onto strange children is grounds for execution.
I know what you’re thinking, but don’t you dare bring Mr. T into this! While his trademark hair may resemble sprouts to some, his thing was milk, which apparently does a body good (#FutureFitMom??). He also told us to “Treat Your Mother Right”, so his heart is in the right place. If ma says no milk for her lactose intolerant girl, T will step aside to champion another cause. Threatening the same little fools to say no to drugs, perhaps.
I don’t think I could really go through with this. Based on my track record, this project will get shelved alongside my aspiring rap career and corresponding lyrics / pseudonyms / beats / dream entourage diary. I have to be flexible about the whole thing. I’d have to let this hashtag expand further beyond my grotesque eye-humping of well-meaning ladies. Once these hashtags are introduced, their applications tend to grow exponentially. For that reason, I’ll have to add some honest-to-goodness mothers on my #FitMom Executive Committee. They will assist in painstakingly analyzing any potential #FitMom honoree to help point out any flaws that I cannot spot. While I’m too distracted looking at their genetic assets, they will ask the hard questions that I dare not bring up.
Isn’t that Rockstar Energy Drink in her sippy cup?
Weren’t those cribs discontinued since they caused babies to dream about Freddy Krueger?
Isn’t giving a baby an “I Love Mommy” shirt a bit presumptuous considering she’s giving her son a near-chokeslam with one arm while taking a selfie with the other?
Who takes their kids to Medieval Times anymore? That’s so 90’s!
Their viewpoint needs consideration because I know it isn’t my place to judge a woman solely on physical appearance, especially all those women who’ve undergone the nine month body-distorting process necessary to repopulate the planet at record rates in order to cope with the oncoming Venusian invasion of 2158 (and you thought it would be the Martians, you bloody speciest!). What could a young man such as I know about such labours? What’s the most I’ve been able to nurture for a nine month period? I don’t think the batteries even lasted that long on a Tamagotchi.
Could I stand the pain of child birth? I’ll let you gals have that one, considering the possibilities explored in the movie Junior freaked me the hell out when I first saw the trailer. To this day, I still haven’t watched that movie. This is from a man who loves his awesomely bad movies, which I’m only assuming “Junior” would be classified as. I’d sooner go the John Hurt condensed route of “pregnancy” ending with my bloody demise after a few days of discomfort. Surprisingly, the term “dead-beat dad” pre-dates Alien, but more than a few men must have got that impression. Who couldn’t picture an expecting father scream “I’m not raising that little monster” in the theater the second that alien busts out of him?
Mind you that this is, in no shape or form, an endorsement of the lifestyle of the dead-beat dad. But a woman did have to kill that little bugger in the end, so you tell me who’s right.