But then I stopped being miserable and started eating again and realized that crazy weight loss was too good to be true.
While I weigh more or less the same after having Hank as I did before, things have settled in some not-so-flattering spots. For one thing, I have a C-section scar at my bikini line. That means the skin doesn't really have anywhere to go around it, so I have two weird rolls that balance on top of it. It makes things like low-riding pants and underwear uncomfortable and unattractive, and tight-fitting tops completely out of the question.
I have no idea what size jeans I wear now. I had to go through three pairs the other day to find ones that fit. The Levi's that I'm wearing right now? Size 3 Short, super comfortable and covers up Roll #1 (the larger of the two, situated under my navel) nicely. But jeans whose tags bear the same size, jeans that I couldn't keep up without a belt before, are now so tight around my middle that I can't bend over without some serious regrets. "Busted can of biscuits" is an accurate description of how I feel on the regular.
Unfortunately, my bustline didn't get the message that things were supposed to expand. Prior to Hank, I measured at a weird, but appropriate size - 35A/B. I wore 34B bras and they fit the way they're supposed to fit. After deciding to stop nursing (at which point I made it to a 36C, yowza), the girls shrunk. A lot. I am now a 34AA. For the first time since high school, I've resorted to padded bras to make up for the loss. Not a fan.
While the remedy for the bra size is way too costly and painful for me to consider right now, I guess the logical solution to the pants situation is to work out. Just typing those words made me involuntarily sigh heavily. I absolutely despise working out. People who update their Facebooks with their exuberance about their morning run or daily trip to the gym... I just don't understand how their brain works. I'm not sure that it's wired correctly, because I don't know how any logical person could find anything so tedious to be fun. Believe me, I've attempted it all. I've bought the shoes, I've tread on the mill, and I still just hate everything about it. I'm thinking about attempting a local cardio class next week, which doesn't involve (a) picking up anything heavy, (b) moving without going anywhere or (c) attempting dance moves that my body was not meant to do. We'll see how that goes..
I have a husband who compliments me regularly, and not in a cheesy, forced way. He genuinely thinks I'm hot, which is sweet of him, but at the same time... I mean, he loves White Castle and peanut butter on his waffles, so it's not out of line for me to question his taste. Maybe he can picture me the way I was before.
I think this is just one of the many unexpected (or under-emphasized) things that come along with children that you have to accept as part of the package. No, you can't smoke that cigarette. No, you can't order that glass of wine with dinner. No, you can't go out for sushi for 10 months. No, you can't bend over to tie your shoes. No, you can't sleep in. No, you can't get the whole house clean in one day. No, you can't fit into your old jeans without a fight, and your jeans will probably win. No, you can't keep them tiny forever, as much as it breaks your heart to know that they're already becoming independent...
...but that's another entry for another time.
