I occurred to me, while my legs were splayed in a very un-lady-like position, that I pay to be tortured. I pay the local gym instructors, to demand that I put a resistance band under my step, with my feet in the handles, so that as I lay on my back, my feet are pulled in opposite directions. The torture part comes in when I'm told to squeeze my feet together until my inner thighs and abs rebel and shake uncontrollably. Others around me wonder if I'm seizing. But the instructor (who is quite pregnant, by the way) knows better. She knows she's conquered another stay-at-home mom who just wants to be fit and trim.
I find myself wanting to be present while she's giving birth, so I can "encourage" her with her own words: "Are your abs sore yet? No? Well, maybe we should do this again, until you really feel something!"
I'm usually a very sweet person. I wish laboring mothers peace and comfort. Usually. This lady, and her band of ultra-fit cronies, has my respect. But I'm short on compassion, just now.