Due to a combination of factors, most of which have to do with horrible life-altering catastrophes, I have somehow reached my pre-pregnancy weight. I don’t recommend this diet. It’s not nearly as bad as the one I was on after Leta was born, the Let’s Think About Committing Suicide Every Hour diet, but it’s pretty bad and requires that you lose a loved one and suddenly wake up one morning with a flesh-eating disease.
Wouldn’t you rather just cut out the carbs?
This diet also requires that you listen to this noise for at least 10 hours a day (Warning: this is 60-second clip of a four-month-old whining. If you are not prone to seizures or violence, you will be after listening to this once.)
I’ve put off organizing my closet until I reached this point, but even now a lot of my clothing still doesn’t fit right. Everything in my midsection has sort of shifted around, and where there was once a curve there is now a 1973 Chevy Van covered in airbrushed flames careening around that curve, and it’s being chased by a swarm of local police who are steering with one hand while clutching a donut in the other.
All of my big jeans fit, sort of. Meaning that in order to walk while wearing them I have to perform a ridiculous acrobatic dance of squats and lunges to stretch them out enough that I can bend my knee. Also, I’m not ever washing them again because then they’d shrink that centimeter or two, and BOOM I’m back to wearing my maternity pants and people at the grocery store are asking me when I’m due. Oh I’m due, alright. FOR SOME WAFFLE FRIES.
Anyway, I was trying to avoid thinking about all the crap raining down around my ears the other day, and I got into the organizing mood. And you seriously do not want to screw with me when I am in that mood, not if you enjoy the arrangement of limbs on your body, no. I remind myself of my mother when I get into that mode. You know that woman, the one who sold more Avon products that anyone else in the world? Yeah, when I was growing up and she was scrubbing the bathtub, my siblings and I would hide in the closet because the violent squiggly lines around my mother’s body were likely to disfigure our faces.
I was a mad woman, throwing out shirts and odd sweat pants that had been accumulating for years, and then I got to my underwear drawer, OH HELL YES I’M GOING THERE. Turns out that the majority of the weight I gained during pregnancy amassed itself in my butt, and for the first time in my life I had one! You can’t tell from any of my pregnancy pictures that my butt doubled in size, but that’s only because it was so small to begin with that even when doubled it was still invisible to the naked eye.
It boggled the minds of scientists!
And holy horse balls, that underwear is huge! Massive! As elephantine as my ego! I took one pair, pulled it over my head, stuck my arms through the leg holes, and suddenly I’m wearing a toga! A toga with tiny puppies and hearts and an elastic pink lining that is long enough to measure the coastline of Africa.
Who wore those things?! I DID. I wore those things! And why didn’t the person sleeping next to those things say something about it? Like GOOD GOD, WOMAN, HAVE YOU NO DIGNITY.
Point is. Pre-pregnancy weight! Sort of. Yay!