Here’s the thing. I’m not 100% unhappy with my whole mom body, but I’m not exactly proud of it either. I’m sure that the daily glass(es) of wine don’t help. Nor do the bi-monthly trips to Taco Bell for a Mexican pizza (no tomato of course), bean and cheese burrito, and a hard shell taco. Or the fact that we make cheese infused pasta on Sundays followed by Taco Tuesday EVERY SINGLE WEEK.
Don't worry. This isn't a WOE IS ME post. I am grateful for what I have, blah blah blah.
Some days I wrestle with the whole body image thing. All throughout high school I was the skinny chick with hip bones that could poke an eye out. And hello clavicles. Those shits where sharper than my eyes watching the shower scene in The Proposal. Tractor Beams.
College welcomed some added weight and boobs. Hello B cups. Bow chicka wow wow! Then pregnancy brought on D’s. JC those were hot. I felt like a porn star. And kinda loved it. Except for the whole painful, swollen, and leaking situation.
After Smith, I dropped all the weight and then some without really trying all that hard. G’on. You can kick me in the ear; it’s fine. I’d do it too.
But somehow my metabolism has gone on strike because at (almost) 33, I am at my heaviest and it’s a hard pill to swallow. I’m not fat. I’m not skinny. I’m in between and depending on how nice the Juniors Section is at Target, I am a six 6 / 8. (maybe I should stop thinking I'm a Junior in the first place and just stick to the Misses department). EFF. Old Navy is way nicer in that capacity though, where I can rock 4’s. But, I’d much prefer to shop at H&M where I can wear a 29/30 and not really know what that means, so its good for my ego.
|taken this week. i kinda want to kiss this picture because it's actually good.|
As I got out of the shower this morning, I noticed some jiggly spots ON MY BACK. Who has back fat? This girl apparently.
I’m torn. I mean, some days I am “Oh. my. god. BECKY. Look at her butt. Its so BIG!” and want to find the closest gym and throw myself on a treadmill until my sweat starts crying in agony. But other days, I’m like… whatever. It is what it is. Husband loves me. If I have a little extra junk in the
trunk back, so be it.
I imagine this will be a lifelong battle as I age. And I kinda want to kick husband in the neck because he just gets better looking with age while I'm fighting the inevitable fug.
I swear I’m not old inside though. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m a 12 year old boy who got a hold of his dad’s Playboy and pees his pants when someone says Uranus.