This is me in my new swimsuit, purchased with the hopes of buying me a few extra years before I die of skin cancer. Oh, c’mon! We all know it’ll happen. Sooner rather than later. I just hope it’ll lean a little towards the later so I can see my own kids become parents (if that’s what they want to do…).
Actually, this is how I see myself when I look in the mirror. When I went through the infertility treatments and the miscarriages, my weight and size just kept climbing. Before the stress of it all packed on, my husband had it easy. All he had to do was memorize one number when it came to shopping for me: 7. Shoes, hat-size, jeans, etc. and that was after I had Doodicus. Before that, I would hit the clearance racks at Banana Republic and snap up all the size 2 items for a song.
I hit my second highest weight right before getting pregnant with Aitch, but I was ecstatic when breastfeeding brought me back down closer to my goal, one that let me wear everything I still had in my closet, and comfortably! I was really hoping it would eventually lead to this:
And then I lost my job one month shy of my 10-year anniversary, and I had a renewed case of loathing for who I am. I don’t think I ate more, I just did less. And then one day I asked my husband, “Does it look like I’m gaining weight?” and without the hesitation that you see in the commercial where President Lincoln’s wife asks him if she looks fat, Sparring Partner answered simply and quickly, “Yes.” But he didn’t stop there, “Haven’t you had to buy some new jeans up-a-size this year?”
If I wasn’t such a hardened bitch, I would have crumpled to the floor and cried my weight in tears. I’ve tried to watch what I eat, but I can honestly say that my diet isn’t excessive. So I signed up for a membership at the Y and started Zumba and weight-lifting. It’s been over two months and even though I go to one of the two classes every week-day, I still haven’t lost any weight. Or I don’t think so. The last time I stepped on a scale was about a month ago, right before I did go buy some new jeans (it was get some new jeans or find someone to invent a bra with a built-in muffin-top holder).
FYI: it’s true what Stacy and Clinton say. Wear clothes that fit you now, not the clothes you hope to fit into. Wearing a pair of jeans that didn’t make every knit top I have look like I was shoplifting kielbasa is a mood-booster for sure.
I try not to beat myself up mentally over what is most likely just a simple case of aging, but it’s hard to not think about where did my youth go? I feel like so much of it was wasted. On what? I don’t know and that brings me full circle. I want to be one of those women who march into their 50s content, empowered, and yet still beautiful, but I’m mired in what feels like an endless funk. I look at this picture and I remind myself that I’m not as much of a lost cause as I sometimes perceive myself to be, but I want to be better. Physically and mentally.