Fear and Loathing in Lane Bryant

I own the exact same pair of jeans in four sizes. The exact same pair. The sad thing is that the cut isn't all that flattering on me, I just realized. The really sad thing is that I would feel better about this if I weren't still squeezing in to the second-to-largest pair six months post-baby.

I've lost nine pounds since Westley was born, after the eighteen pounds of water and blood and guts and baby disappeared overnight. That leaves me with, uh, a lot of weight still to lose. And with a six-month-old son, I'm out of the "I just had a baby"-excuse space. Yes, I know there are women who play the "Just Had a Baby" card when their children are two (or four) years old. But those women sound completely ridiculous, and I'd rather not be the mother who blames her fatness on her child.

It's certainly not Westley's fault that, after five-and-a-half months of despising all food, I ate lots and lots of fried potatoes the minute my pregnancy nausea let up. I could have had a nice big salad, but I chose to have veggie burgers instead. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, not so much.

But I've lost weight before, in ways mostly healthy and not-so-healthy. I'm reasonably confident that I can get down to my fighting weight again, even if I have to go without my time-honored traditions of juice-fasting and nothing-but-apples-and-water-for-a-week. I'm not actually as bothered by having weight to lose as I am by the distribution of said weight. I'm fascinated to note that these particular pounds look different on me.

I've been my current weight before, but never like this. My large breasts are now larger than ever. My lower body is mostly mush, and I have hips now. Womanly hips, one might even say. I'm afraid that even when the extra pounds are gone, the shape will linger, and my old straight-cut jeans and skirts won't fit the new body. And I'll have to learn how to shop all over again.

For now, however, I'd much prefer not to deal with clothes at all. Except that I can't go naked, and wouldn't really want to if I could. Getting dressed blows, and not just because almost everything I own has some kind of baby-related stain on it somewhere. It's the problem of fit. I'm not only between sizes, but between departments: regular sizes cut into my flesh and plus sizes are too roomy to the point of looking a little tent-like. I've been trying to cover up the problem with thrift-store purchases, but I just end up looking worse. The solution is clear:

I need to get up off my fat ass womanly hips and get busy.

And six months from now, I'll write a post with some awful pun in the title. "The Weight is Over." Oh yeah, baby.

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