I am usually as honest and truthful as it gets on this blog, but one thing that I have been intentionally not speaking about for a variety of reasons. But today is one of those days where I throw caution to the wind, chug an extra glass of wine, and slap a taco on my ass.
I went to the doctor yesterday to find out what the fuck is infecting me. The standard practice ensued… sign in, copay, wait in lobby and stalk Instagram, hear your name called and walk into the back, step on the scale, remembering to take off your shoes and put down your 20lb handbag.
I see the nurse practitioner move the big weight to the 50 mark and my heart sinks. Too heavy… and I dance a little in my head. Next weight back, but then the smaller weight slides far, far to the right. 148. And my heart cries a little again.
I’m not claiming to be overweight. Not the case at all. I am 5’8” and 148 lbs as of yesterday after a pound of chips and salsa and a bean burrito for lunch. Dead in the middle of “normal” weight for height. Numbers typically don’t mean much to me, but for some reason, this one hit me hard. Probably because it’s the heaviest I have ever been sans pregnancy.
My mind starts wandering to that deep, dark place where you start questioning how you really look. Does Husband find me attractive anymore? But I just wore skinny jeans yesterday and thought I looked pretty good. Bikini season is just around the corner… am I going to have to be in a mom suit instead of the latest VS sparkly bit?
Completely irrational. Completely unintentional. Completely ridiculous. But for me, I am struggling. One minute I love my curves. I have boobs now. I have thighs. I have a butt. I am round and womanly. But the other side of the fence is that I’m not 125 lbs anymore. And if the past three years is any indication, I won’t be 125lbs ever again. I grew up the skinny little shit that couldn’t put on weight if my future with Joey McIntyre depended on it.
I just want to be happy in my skin. I want to not yoyo in my opinions on myself. I want to look in the mirror EVERY DAY and know that I am perfect for me. And others opinions don’t matter. Easier said than done of course.
I think of my son. I want him to be proud of his mom. I want to be healthy for him. I want him to look at his mom and see a strong and confident woman, not a shell of a person just trying to keep up with the ideal of perfection in someone else’s eyes. I want him to grow up and love women regardless of their size.
I need to learn to brush off the self-doubt and celebrate the jiggle if some days it means that I can indulge in that extra glass of mommy juice. I am going to embrace it all, regardless of the number, and just be me.