It’s official: I’ve given up on losing the rest of the “baby weight.” She’s almost five, now, by the way, so I guess it’s really the “child weight” — it arrived when I was pregnant but stuck around to see the little one grow up. Can’t blame it for sentimentality. Happens to the best of us.
I see tiny little women who’ve just given birth and I hate them. I do.
It’s obviously ugly of me and I wish it weren’t true, but there you have it.
I see their flat little tummies and their petite, buoyant breasts, and I think,
I only wear leggings. Only. Well, maybe sweatpants. But fuck jeans. Sometimes in a surge of optimism and determination I’ll put on skinny jeans, when I’m trying to look like a real person, but goddamn if they don’t pinch and squeeze my belly all day. And then I think, “fuck this,” and I rip them off, and go back to leggings, and my whole body says, “THANK YOU, Jesus, what was THAT ordeal?!”
I weigh about 10 pounds more than I did pre-offspring. And I’m just not willing to do what it would take to shed it. I just don’t care enough. No glass of wine in the evenings? No thanks. Slaving away at a gym? I haven’t been able to stick with a gym membership since I was approximately 20 years old (oh, the discipline that 20-year-old had!), so why even bother acting like that might work?
I eat a ton of vegetables. Whole grains. Drink a lot of water. I walk a decent amount, living in the city, but not THAT much, seeing as most of my life occurs within a 2-mile radius of my apartment. When I walk the mile home from my daughter’s school, I feel quite virtuous. And what’s that? Oh, a little pang of hunger. I must have worked up an appetite. Better have a snack.
Yeah, I’d love to have a flat stomach and boobs that weren’t gargantuan on my frame.
I’d love to look like the hot-as-shit 20-year-old I once was.
I’d love for the crossing guard outside my daughter’s school not to gesture at my belly and congratulate me on my pregnancy.
But fuck it. Really, fuck it.
I’ll just buy some bigger jeans.