Anyone who has known me longer than, oh, five years can probably remember that at one time, before marriage, pregnancy, and child rearing, I had one smokin' hot body. Let's face it, I was a 10. Ah, the days when my fabulous bone structure was not concealed beneath a four inch layer of fat, when I didn't know the meaning of "fat jeans", and there was no elastic in my wardrobe. Ok, there's still no elastic in my wardrobe, as I manage to clothe this thickened body in the height of fashion, but that is not to say there couldn't be elastic! These days I find myself closer and closer to the "Just My Size" section of the department store. You know the one; it has the pleated cotton/polyester blend slacks with the elastic waist. One is expected to pair these pants with a sweatshirt made beautiful by a scalloped collar and embroidered kitties prancing across the vast expanse of the chest portion of the garment. This ensemble is a fate worse than death.
I used to love to go shopping for clothes. Women, you know what I'm talking about when I remember fondly how good it felt to take the size 6 into the fitting room and be able to pull it up past your ankles. Now I fear that the only thing I can do with my clothes in that size is create some very beautiful dusting rags. Sigh.
Here's the thing, my weight gain was not my fault! No, it wasn't that I ate like a pig at his last meal during my entire pregnancy, it wasn't that bagels slathered with cream cheese and Chinese take out were staples of my pre-natal diet, it was the baby. He was hungry. What was I to do, deny my precious little pumpkin his interuteran snack? Surely not! So I ate. And ate. And then, when I was finished with that, I ate dessert. It is to be concluded that I took the phrase "eating for two" straight to heart...or to straight to stomach as the case may be.
It has come to my attention that the "baby weight" excuse no longer passes muster when your baby is on the near side of two. Thus, I have decided that fat time is now at a close, and the diet is on. The problem with this plan is two fold.
- 1. I hate it.
Am I to be expected to, gasp, exercise?
You mean it is not acceptable to blend the slim fast with ice cream to make it more palatable? - I am very impatient. I expect that after one slim fast and a walk around the block I should be whipping out the old size 6's again and strutting my tight little ass down the catwalk. I now understand that this expectation was not very realistic.
However, I am determined to, if not become super model skinny, to at least endeavor to be thin enough not to weep in the dressing room at Macy's every time I see the double digit size in my jeans. (Just a little aside here, you don't seriously expect me to divulge the actual size, do you? Get real!)
So, I am on the road to hotness again (not that I am admitting leaving this road, just taking a small detour through Two Ton Tessy-ville). I am losing losing losing! Twenty pounds and counting! I can only pray that this log of cookie dough I am even now eating for lunch will not set me back too far..
