THOSE AIN’T NO LOVE HANDLES! THAT’S FAT… %$#@ING FAT!

Whoever told me that its harder to lose weight after giving birth to your second than it was with the first, was absolutely right! I didn’t realized this fact until now, 4 months later, as I try to squeeze my, out-of-shape-no-longer-slim-college-athlete ass in my pre-pregnancy size 4 pants. I know I must look ridiculous as hell because that’s exactly how I feel, with that leftover, limp, fatty skin – that when extended to its complete max resembles the saggy, lifeless shape of pulled saltwater taffy. 

Getting up on a daily basis for work, and finding clothes that fit my unwelcomed thickness or at least appear to the human eye to suit me properly, is a flat out  challenge. I will stand in my closet, gawking disappointedly at the abundance of clothes that seemed to fit me a lifetime ago, hoping that maybe I will come across an undiscovered pair of roomy pants, buried among the hated smalls and the loathsome size fours. If I was afforded the option of sporting some comfortable sweats and tennis shoes, my mornings would be rather stress-free and I just might enjoy going to work a little more. But since this alternative is highly unprofessional in my line of work, I have to be creative by strategically piecing together an ensemble that will attempt to flatter my problem areas; thighs, ass, and spare tire – my insecurities, if you will.

You may think I’m exaggerating when I speak of my unpleasant weight, but it is truly no joke, especially the last 15lbs of it. I feel and look as though I’m three months pregnant again and I know  exactly what that feels like because I’ve been pregnant twice in two damn years! I’m surprised my co-workers haven’t eyeballed me suspiciously or have asked me if I’m pregnant, yet again, for the third time. But from some of their overheard comments and stares, they wouldn’t be too terribly surprised if this was true. I mean, damn, they either must think that my husband and I are nymphomaniacs and crave sex like a street junkie craves the crack pipe or that my main goal in life is to emulate Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar by relinquishing my overworked uterus every single year to house rapidly growing fetuses. At this point, I think I’d rather be pregnant. At least when you have a belly containing a life inside of it, it’s considered beautiful and strangers give compassionate glances, whereas a plain old droopy belly gets the, “Is she pregnant?” look or the “Man, her inner tube tummy could sure keep her and three other people afloat in the Pacific!”

I try hard with the clothes I have. I hate to admit it, but there have been times that I’ve had to go to work with my pants unbuttoned because my fat prevented the clasps from coming together. Embarrassing right?! Well, my nightmare doesn’t end there. I had a belly band which I wore early in my pregnancy for this very reason; too small for maternity clothes and too big for my regular pants. The purpose of the Bella Band is to conceal your exposed underwear for the simple fact that you are no longer able to zip or button your pants because of your expanding belly caused by the pregnancy.  Throw a shirt over it and it looks like you’re wearing a camisole under your shirt. It’s a novel idea, let me tell you, especially now and I’m not even pregnant! It sure as hell beats wearing maternity clothes. Besides, there was no way I was keeping maternity clothing leftover for fear that it would jinx me into having another baby! Crazy, right?!

I carefully coordinate my outfits with several layers, larger tops and my favorite, the Old Navy Cardi Coat. No form fitting shirts or sweaters on this chick! I am bundled up so much, I had a co-worker of mine tell me, “What, are you, cold? You look like a 90 year old woman with that sweater on!” I don’t give a damn! When I sit in my chair at my desk, I feel that flabby skin slowly spill over my pants, similar to molasses oozing out of a mason jar.  When the fat has settled, I look down and shake my head in disappointment. I poke at it thinking it may come to life or that I will giggle uncontrollably like the Pillsbury Doughboy, but neither occurs. I hate sitting for this reason alone! I have Dunlap disease, a frickin’ muffin top for crying out loud!

A good buddy at work expressed to me, “What are you talking about? You don’t need to lose weight!” I’m thinking to myself, “Fool, you haven’t seen me naked!” Clothes kind of keep certain areas in tact, but once the clothes come off, the fat falls freely and aimlessly. My husband constantly tells me I’m hot and that he finds me sexy. I tell him he needs to get his eyes checked. I’m sure I could gain 100 lbs and he would still find me sexy. Simple creature.

I want to lose this weight desperately and try to look like I did in college, but I’m too lazy to go to the gym and I don’t have the will power to say no to a bucket full of Dreyer’s Limited Edition Mud Pie ice cream. I’ve even considered taking the Acai Berry Cleanse that recent advertisements claim is endorsed by every celebrity imaginable. Apparently, it’s supposed to flatten your tummy by cleaning the “crap” out of your colon. I hear you won’t leave the toilet the first day on the stuff and I’m not down to be wearing no got-dang diaper if my bowels will be looser than  the lips on the nosey neighborhood gossip or looser than a two-bit hooker in a cheap, diseased-tainted brothel.

First, I will try and lose the weight the good old fashion way, by working out and eating better - no more fresh baked cookies, easy mix peach cobbler or ice cream (the tears are welling up). I have enlisted the help of my husband and we have set a pretty achievable goal of losing 8 lbs each by Thanksgiving. I must rid my frame of this wretched muffin top! Between you and me, my sails deflate every time when I see my good-looking girlfriends – with kids and without – with their perfect-figure-bikini-wearing-Venice Beach-worthy bodies. Has my life succumbed to being a young mom with a leftover, saggy gut from two c-sections, trying desperately to get back to her original weight, unable to ever wear her “skinny” jeans again?

As much as my new body sucks to be in and look at, I remember that my tummy is a badge of honor and my body will continue to change. I was able to birth two handsome boys and not every woman is fortunate enough to experience motherhood and all of its splendors. So, if you ever see me in bikini or see my cinnamon roll spilling over my pants, don’t throw that repulsed sneer my way. Give me a smile, show some compassion and know that I am as human as yourself and a proud mother with the body to prove it, love handles and all!