Personally, I think I got the shaft when it came to not getting the gene to be “naturally thin.” Not that I’m a beluga, but jealousy abounds when I hear someone (thin) say, “And I just eat all the time – I can’t seem to gain weight!” ::throws up in mouth::
I’ll never watch a Victoria’s Secret commercial without thinking how nice it would be if one of them choked on the once-a-year hamburger they eat while assuring us it’s a regular meal.
I most certainly thought I ate in moderation over the holidays. Well, except cookies. Casserole(s). Mashed potatoes. Bagels. Candy. And seafood alfredo from the Olive Garden. But really – those didn’t count because they were “Holiday Calories.” Right? Right.
Yet *somehow* my lower portion got the message that it was ok to tack on about 3 inches to each section and never.let.go. Titanic style.
I’d like you to take a look at this Christmas picture. Brace yourself.
Besides the obvious fact my kid made off with a haul this Christmas, I think it’s quite clear that I’m not winning Mom Abs of the Year anytime soon. (And for all of you about to say, “I can’t even tell; you look amazing” – NO. Just, no.)
So, here’s the part in every weight post that you read about someone pledging to start exercising, start a diet, start a massive colon cleanse (thank you Jennifer). Run a marathon, walk themselves thin, eat cabbage, go vegan.
But. I’m not.
Instead of wallowing in self hate after seeing these photos and then pledging to do something I’d never follow through with, I did something a little insane. I went out and bought myself a whole new wardrobe with gift cards. For my post-baby self. So clothes actually fit me.
And now, I’m not looking in the mirror with a muffin top, suffocated thighs and back rolls begging for mercy while my mind screams, “LOOK AT YOU FATTY – YOU WERE ABLE TO FIT IN THESE A COUPLE YEARS AGO! WHY DON’T WE SHOVE ANOTHER BAGEL IN THAT PIEHOLE?”
I was tired of feeling like a loser when I put on my old clothes. Frumpy, bumpy, and lumpy. I don’t care that my pants no longer have a single digit on them. I don’t care that my shirts all say “L” (which, incidentally, does not stand for loser).
This year, I pledge to love me. To be healthy – but in a positive way. To be realistic about my body. To not cringe when I stand in front of the mirror after a shower and think things I’d never in a million years dream of saying to anyone else. To accept there are seasons I go through physically. To rock whatever clothes I happen to fit into at the time.
To be – for severe lack of a better term – a proud porker. ::fist pump::