Yeah, so, let me apologize in advance for this post. There is nothing more boring than some chick talking about her diet, but here we go.
I put on a ton of weight when I got knocked up.
I put on so much weight that I lied to people when they asked me how much weight I gained. The number of pounds was so high that I gave my inquisitors a lower number … and that number was still really high. Trust me. I put on so much weight that I won’t admit the number here, and I admit everything here. I once wrote about being so desperate for a drink that tried to make a Hot Toddy with sugar-free maple syrup because that all I had in the house.
When I got pregnant, I wanted to be Heidi Klum. I wanted to stay slim with the exception of a baby bump. It was a laughable, unrealistic goal. The minute the pregnancy test said positive I put on 10 pounds. The baby poisoning didn’t help matters. Plus, I had my thyroid gland removed back in 1998, because all the cool kids were doing it. Thyroid glands control metabolism, and my meds were constantly being adjusted to accommodate the growing the spawn. Of course, these all sound like sorry-ass excuses, right? I also replaced red wine and dark beer with milkshakes; tasty, tasty milkshakes.
So, yeah, I got big.
Throughout the entire pregnancy I beat myself up for it. Yes, I’m so fucked up in the head that I wouldn’t let myself be fat even when pregnant. That’s some serious bullshit, right?
While I was carrying around this little person inside of me, I kept my fingers crossed that the pregnancy weight would just melt away after I gave birth. “I’m totally special, you guys. It’s going to happen for me.” Once again, it was a laughable, unattainable goal.
I’m really ashamed. I can be really mean to myself. The horrible things I say to myself; I would never say those things to someone else who was in my position. I’m so ashamed I didn’t even want to write about it, because I like to pretend that I’m well adjusted and awesome. The truth is I’m just as screwed up as everyone else … and awesome. Also, I write about everything here. I can’t keep secrets from you … except how much weight I truly put on. I’m not ready to share that just yet.
I’m writing about this because I want other women who may stumble across this blog to know that it’s hard to lose the pregnancy weight. We’re not super models. We’re not actresses. It’s their job to look good. I’m pretty sure if it was my job to look like physical perfection after giving birth, I would do it. It’s easy when you have people cooking for you, and a nanny on staff to watch your baby, so you have time to work out all day long with your personal trainer.
Sadly, I’m just a regular person. It’s not my job to look like a Photoshopped magazine cover. I have to cook for myself. I have to sit in a cube all day to earn a living. When I’m not in the cube, I have a baby to take care of. It doesn’t leave a lot of time for hitting the gym. I’m not Beyonce. I’m not Gwyneth Paltrow. I’m not Kate Hudson. I’m just lame, nerdy ol’ me.
I try to get in some exercise. I try to hit a yoga class, and I love to go for walks. But my time is limited. My half-ass dieting and occasional workouts are not enough to help me drop these spawn-induced pounds, which is why [cue dramatic music] I joined Weight Watchers.
Yes, yes, I know. I’m one of those jerks who talks about how many points food is. Feel free to mock me, but it’s working. I’ve lost 10 pounds in the first month. Sure, I eat fruit and veggies all day, so I can waste my points on booze at night, but I’m still losing weight. It won’t be long before I will be wearing my pre-knocked up clothes again.
I feel like an asshole writing about my weight (again). I suspect any man stopped reading this post at the first line, while women are reading and nodding. I know I’m not alone.
What a stupid thing for me to be worrying about all the time. Seriously. It’s such a waste of energy. I beat cancer. I went through three different breast cancer surgeries. I pushed a healthy baby out of my uterus without drugs. Honestly, most of the time I walk around thinking there is nothing I can’t do — except be nice to myself for putting on weight while pregnant … and be in the same room as a spider. Oh hell no! I would rather die.
OK, once again. I apologize for this post. Here’s a cute photo of The Boy on Oscar Sunday.