I was thinking about it sort of sadly as I perused the stacks of new and hip clothes at H & M on Saturday (also I thought about this: when the fuck did the 80’s come back in style?) that I haven’t worn my Real Clothes–the ones I’d had for years–since 2006. After I’d gotten pregnant with Alex on my birthday (so THAT’s the way it is in my family)(also: guess what *I* got for my birthday that year?)(answer: a fetus) in 2006, as I turned 26, I almost immediately began to gain weight.
I’d fallen into the I’ll eat everything I can think of because it’s good for the preschus bay-bee trap when I’d had Ben, and it took me years to beat those 60 pounds off. So when I got pregnant with Alex, I was bound and determined to gain the recommended whatever it is. I was exactly what I weighed when I got pregnant with Ben as when I got pregnant with Alex, and it was on the high end of normal for my BMI (lest you take from this that I have been skinny since I was 15) (because I haven’t), so I was shocked at my week 9 visit when I’d gained 9 pounds.
It was shocking because I’d been barfy the whole time and not really eating and Jesus H, !9! pounds! THAT’S A TON OF LBS for someone who isn’t eating.
So yeah, the elastic band trick through the pants laughed in my sad, fat face and I immediately had to buy some maternity pants. I know plenty of people who can easily squeeze themselves into their old clothes for months, but since I carry my extra weight in my belly when I’m thin, it’s just freaking more uncomfortable when I’m pregnant. And since so many things about pregnancy are uncomfortable, why not eliminate what you can when you can?
(especially when you cannot eat either hot dogs OR soft cheeses) (assholes)
Anyway, I digress.
I’d lost all but 15 pounds of Alex weight when I got pregnant with Amelia, and piled 60ish pounds on top of that. The result is not pretty. I’ve tried the Alli, which, even with the oily ass-butter, didn’t help. I tried cutting out fast food, cupcakes and butter as food groups, and still nothing. I knew I was going to be fat for BlogHer and while I wasn’t happy about it, I thought at least a couple of pounds might budge.
Not yet, ickle grasshopper. It doesn’t appear that my body has gotten the message to drop these pesky pounds, and so fat I will be. Diet and exercise, just as an FYI, don’t ALWAYS work.
I considered calling in fat to the conference, but since I already paid for my tickets and got self-absorbed enough to have business cards made, I figured I probably was stuck going. Besides, skipping an event because you’re fat? Kinda pathetic, yo.
So there I was, in H & M trying to find anything that might fit. I got discouraged enough looking at the legwarmers and oversized shirts that I left for greener (read: fatter) pastures. I did end up finding pants, and I will tell you that I actually cried when I saw the size.
It’s going to take awhile to get these pounds to consider budging, and I guess that’s okay, even though maybe I should take up a Little Debbie Habit since I already look like I have one. I’ve found a way to work exercise into my schedule next month, once Ben is done with swimming lessons, and I’m probably going to try Weight Watchers again, after the conference just so I feel like I’m doing SOMETHING to combat this.
And decided that I’m (mostly) done apologizing for being heavier. Done. I’ll get the weight off, but in the meantime, I’m not going to shove myself into ill-fitting clothes. No, I’m going to do things that will make myself feel pretty: I’ll go tanning, get my hairs did, buy some freaking clothes. Why not celebrate what I’ve got right now?
But I celebrated last night. Not the loss of pounds, but the removal of clothes from my closet. Anything I hated, anything that wasn’t going to fit anytime soon, all that stuff, most of my maternity clothes, into bags. I filled up three garbage bags and I celebrated. The same way I celebrated when it rained in the wee hours of my birthday: I feel like I’m wiping the slate clean and starting again.
Last year on my birthday, when I was all pregnant and spotty and hormonal I remember hoping and praying that this year would be better and hahaha! 28 has been the hardest of my life so far. There’s obviously no guarantee that 29 will be any better because most of what happens is stuff I have no control over anyway, like that song about Jesus and the Wheel goes.
But I’m taking this all as a Good Omen. I’ll probably eat my words along with my humble pie slathered in ketchup because this is what I usually do, but for now, I feel lighter.
Come on up here and sit on your Aunt Becky’s lap and tell her, what do you find to be Good Omens?
I think I am going to make a separate page for the Amelia stories, which, by the way, thank you for reading and being kind about. I read up on the therapy for PTSD and apparently, talking about it rather than keeping it inside, you’re supposed to talk about it. And after I received the first bill from the therapist, I’m all “dude, I’m just going to tell the Internet. That’s free-er and stuff.”