I'm going to be brutually honest. Sure, it's only been a month since I brought our precious Natalie into the world... but I want my body back. Oh she can have my boobs, no prob. Thanks to her they are a full 2 sizes bigger and I'll admit that it's nice looking like a female in that area for a change. Not to mention that some experts claim nursing burns up to 600 calories a day. Score! Who needs exercise? Oh, right, me.
I would, however, like to exchange my still flabby gut, the brand new stretch marks on my sides and the extra million pounds that cause my thighs to touch when I walk... okay, and sit... and stand. Alright, alright! They are like two drum sticks battling it out for a cash prize or something.
Apparently all of this "baby" weight -as I like to call it, it just sounds more justified that way - is supposedly there as a back-up for your hardworking breastfeeding body. I'm not sure who came up with this, perhaps it was a group of moms hundreds of years ago who decided this is what they'd tell their husbands and friends when any weight related subject came up about their post-partum bodies. You can blame a lot of things on "post-partum". I'm moody because of post-partum. I'm fat because my body is going through the post-partum stage. The time I lost my mind for a brief moment watching that stupid Hallmark commercial and cried like a big blubbering idiot... Good ol' post-partum. Our bodies are in limbo. We are cleaning out all of the excess hormones, fluids, etc. that we no longer need to grow another precious human being. All I'm saying is that now that my precious being is here in the flesh, Give. Me. My. Body. BACK! If I could choose I'd take the body I had after Riley before dear sweet Olivia came along. You, my trusted Reader, probably have no idea which one that is but I remember very fondly. It was my 118 pound, fits in my skinny jeans leaving still another inch of wiggle room, can run a flight of stairs without exploding a lung body. Of course, at that time I only had one child and plenty of spare time for that little thing called EXERCISE. Back then I would have told you that you were crazy if you thought I had any spare time to work out. You'd be just plain insane to even suggest it! Somehow, though, I managed to squeeze it in on almost a daily basis. Wow, fast forward 4 years with 3 children in tow and the same comment and now I'd probably just laugh at you hysterically until I peed my pants. Nothing like taking down the stacks of my skinny clothes from their hiding place in the closet only to find that even my fat pants that I wore after having Olivia don't fit anymore! Oh the HORROR. Seriously. HORROR. I'm simply depressed at the thought of hanging those puppies up as an incentive to lose weight. Great, put the fat pants up so the even fatter fatso can attempt to get back to her pre-fat but still fat self. Self-loathing, I think they call it? On a side note, I really hope that no men are reading this because I'm pretty much spelling out the stereotype on how most women feel about their body image. You know, the one we all deny but secretly obsess over with every bite. Actually, who am I kidding. If any man starting reading this they've definitely stopped long before they got to this part. I can see the head shaking and eye rolling now. "Women" they'd say and completely shut their computers down in an effort to make it all go away. If they only knew what we go through... and usually, as always, it's for them.
I've been telling myself ever since the day I came home from the hospital that I would make every effort to eat right and stay as active as possible until I was given the go-ahead to head to the gym. No sugary snacks, cut out all the white and starchy foods. It's veggies, protein and fiber for me! Woohoo! Half a Valentine's Day cake from Giant and 2 quarts of chocolate milk later here I sit, on my ass, blogging to you. Don't worry. I don't blame you. I blame the never ending housework, the endless requests for snacks and juice, juggling the nap times and the laundry, my husband's crazy work schedule, the moon, the stars, and the Great Wall of China for my lack of doing something about it. No more, however. I have plans to join a gym this week, I'm breaking out my videos and hand weights. I am doing this. Grapefruit and baked chicken, here I come! I vow to be even more successful than the frickin' spokesperson for Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers combined. I will no longer wear my black stretchy pants that hubby despises. After all, the may be black but they certainly aren't slimming!
Our womenly bodies are like battlegrounds. Constantly fighting with ourselves to win over our cravings, our tendency to give in to temptations and the never ending excuses of why we can't exercise, why we can't justify taking a few minutes of time to ourselves to do something to make us happier, healthier people. Look, I'm not trying to be some motivational speaker on weight loss here. I'm really not. I'm just hoping that by being honest and telling you all of this that it might put a foot up my butt to get it in gear. For all I know you could be the re-incarnate of Olive Oyl herself with a loaded kitchen full of bean sprouts. I hate you, by the way. Me, on the other hand, will be clearing out the shelf of fruit snacks and cheese puffs in the pantry for my brown rice and Special K.
Somebody pass me the duct tape. Those size 4 jeans I've been hanging on to? Those bitches are going on the fridge and shortly thereafter my skinny little ass. You just wait and see.
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