Since having a C-section
my body had been...wait a second. I
don’t want to talk about this! Instead,
I’d rather talk about other people’s bodies, for instance, those chicks whose
thighs don’t touch when standing with their feet together. I wonder what it feels like with all that air
passing through. Can they do tree pose? What do they do when there’s a
breeze? That’s got to be awkward.
Ok, I feel better about
myself now and think I’m ready to talk about it. Really, I only have about 10 lbs. of
post-pregnancy weight left to lose, but these 10 lbs. may be the death of
me. Actually, let’s call it 8 lbs.
because of the added breastfeeding boob weight.
That’s a legitimate deduction, right?
And if I were to be honest with myself what I weighed before pregnancy
was a fluke anyway. We had just moved to
a higher elevation so my husband and I both lost weight just by breathing. So let’s call it 6 lbs. I think I’d be happy with losing 6 lbs.,
although, I think that pre-pregnancy number may haunt me forever.
A goofy picture of me at 28 weeks pregnant
My yoga practice tells me
I should be accepting of where I’m at.
But the mirror and this new belly flap thingy I’ve inherited tells me
otherwise. Acceptance. I accept you oh
belly flap, pouchy thingy, folding over my incision scar. I think I’ll name you Shakira. Wait, Shakira has amazing abs. Scribble that. With the exception of making a bloody mess
trying to remove it manually, I have to accept its floppy, doughy presence
until it’s gone and just keep eating healthy and fitting exercise into the
nooks and crannies of my week. On the
elliptical, I can feel Shakira flopping around like she’s not even connected to
my body. Super awesome.
GOAL: Belly flap gone along with the rest of baby
weight in 6 weeks. 6 lbs. in 6 weeks. Yikes! And, I’m not even
going to bring up my backside.
Also, when I was pregnant
I discovered a skin tag
on my belly button you can only see when it’s popped out. I will call him Ramón. Well, Ramón didn’t really “pop” out. He gradually emerged from the dark cave of my
naval to reveal his wrinkly head, kind of like Voldemort with a hanging freckle
on his nose. (Hey! Sounds like the thing
that got me pregnant in the first place.)
I’m pretty sure I’m going
to have to buy all new jeans, not so much because of Shakira, my belly flap
(she just folds over the jeans like a crease in a sack of flour), but because
of how wide my hips got. I try my old
jeans on once in a while, wishful thinking I suppose. Here’s an account of the most recent attempt:
I pull them
on. Snug on the legs, but they usually are after being washed, right? They are stretchy jeans, so I think I just
need to wear them in for a few hours. Still
can’t quite zip them all the way.
Bummer, but some improvement from the last try-on. So things are looking up! I, then, lift up my
shirt to have a look at the fit and GAGOOSH! Shakira plops down to my
horror. I scream and urgently peel off
the jeans then run to the junk drawer to get a lighter so I can burn those sons
o’ bitches.
End scene.
Idiotically, I’ve decided
to hang onto the jeans for one year just to see if fate would have my hips go
back enough for them to fit. Like I said
(through gritted teeth) it’s because of my hips NOT Shakira. My mother says, “Your body will go back. Mine didn’t, but yours will.” Gee, thanks.
Of course, if Husband has his way I’ll be preggy with twins before
then. Eew. I think I just got a little “morning sick” in
my mouth thinking about it.
Acceptance.
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