When I look in the mirror I often wonder, who is that person with the flabby tummy and gargantuan back staring at me like I should know her? That bitch should put down the wine glass and find a treadmill.
For the first time in my life, I am in the unacceptable range of body flab. I feel that I've reached that point where some people decide they're ok with their new-found roundness and suddenly three years later they put biggest loser contestants to shame. I can see how it happens. Lord knows I love my bread, and how and when to exercise is an enigma wrapped in a mystery thrown into a black hole. I know, I just had a baby. And people tell me all the time how good I look. Blind people, that is. Because I didn't "just" have a baby and while that excuse is nice and all, I don't feel very good about the sound of my fat jeans ripping as I jump up and down to get into them.
And here I was just a few months ago, pregnant and proud that I only gained 35 pounds eating whatever the hell I felt like (mostly pizza and chicken fingers) and never swelled like a whale until my final weeks. I was also proud when I lost 25 of those pounds in the first four weeks after delivery.
What I didn't know is the last 10 (ok, call it 15 because let's be honest I was chubs when I got knocked up) would hold on for dear life. And that my entire body would be different. Honestly, even if I do lose this weight (correction: when) I'm not so sure I'll be happy with the results.
Tube socks toting tennis balls for tits, and jiggles where I didn't know they were possible. Not to mention my unrecognizable thighs. They used to never touch but now they're up close and personal. You know my husband is psyched to hit this. It's a good thing we're too damn tired for sex.
This not so skinny bitch needs to find a way to lose this poundage fast so my beach vacations don't suffer. That, or I'll just get pregnant again. Um, not. Now where did I put that discipline...