Should I just change the name of this blog to "What a Size _____ Looks Like?"
Because that is the number one searched phrase that lands folks on this blog. I'm talking several times a day. People from everywhere. Two days ago someone in Delhi searched a version of that and ended up here. Because of this.
So in the spirit of things I'm going to update everyone on the matter.
I had a hard time gaining weight while pregnant this last time. To be honest it was freaking my bean. I was searching Dr Google for all types of issues that could arise from lack of weight gain. Stay away from Dr Google. Dr Google is like that quack who hands over the good pills when what you need is better nutrition and more exercise.
So Jonas was yanked out of me, and he was a decent size. I guess. Seemed small to me, but not overly so. Apparently he was average weight and above average length. Not bad, as I had only managed to shovel on 26 pounds this time. A couple of weeks later after the majority of the swelling went down I figured I'd squeeze into my size 10s and that would be it. I was tired of wearing maternity jeans, and they were starting to bag in the ass. I got out the 10s, put them on, and could have managed to shove Jonas inside with me too. Oops.
I felt rising panic and dug through the closet shelf. I had managed to hold onto ONE pair of 8s. The rest had gone to Goodwill. I put them on and they fit. They didn't fight tightly, they FIT. So I got on the scale. Folks, I'm not going to tell you what it said. I will tell you that the panic worsened. I was trying to eat. Jonas was a handful, but I was managing dinner and several grazings a day. Or so I thought.
I started paying attention. Nope. Eating dinner, sure. Other meals and/or snacks? Not so much. I was busy, but if I could manage to get lunch on the table for Livvie I should certainly be able to stick a yogurt down my throat. But I hate yogurt. Turns out I'm not fond of most types of convenience foods. I had bought some Hot Pockets, but they were morphing into dessicated bricks that would almost certainly leech all of the fluid from my body in order to replenish themselves. Hot Pockets are scary critters. I don't think I'll buy anymore.
I've been a natural Atkins since I was a toddler. If you offer me protein and carbs I'll go for the protein. I like carbs ok, especially in the form of beer, but my body demands protein or Bad Things Happen. Trick or Treating and Easter baskets were a waste of time. Every Easter there would be nasty, stale candy left from Halloween, and every Halloween the reverse. It drove my mother crazy.
So I started stuffing myself with carbs this summer. And I obsessively weighed myself every morning. The number kept going down. Full blown, nail biting dread. When I was 21 I had a friend who would lift me and do arm curls with me. I didn't want to go there. I mock the deliberately skinny, having been a not so deliberate one. The LAST thing I wanted was to walk down the street and hear, "Eat a donut!"
I managed to hit a plateau. The issue is this: those 8s are now bagging on my ass. I only own that pair. I have refused to go buy new jeans because I'm terrified that I will require a smaller size.
I miss my size 10 ass. I miss having a booty and the strut that comes from being womanly. There is no photo of my current ass in this post because, frankly, I don't want anyone seeing it. Besides, asses in baggy jeans = not sexy. Asses in baggy jeans = Stacy and Clinton arriving at your door to throw away your super hero t-shirts.
Don't fucking touch my super hero t-shirts.