Never Gonna Give You Up

We’re all friends here, right? So, friends, can I tell you a little secret? Okay…deep breath…here we go: my favorite jeans – the dark wash, skinny jeans that give me the ass of a Kardashian (albeit a lesser Kardashian, like a Karole or a Klaus) – are, in actuality, maternity jeans.

That felt good. Glad to get that off my chest.

Before you judge me too harshly, I’d like to clarify that they are just barely maternity pants. They’re the kind with the ever so slightly scrunchy waist; the ones you wear when your regular non-prego pants are too small, and the “rubber band trick” doesn’t work anymore. They aren’t the full-blown, up to your tits, flesh-colored panel monstrosities that I boasted I’d never wear (and once I hit seven months pregnant, vowed I would never take off). I swear, they’re just a shade away from jeggings – but the tag doesn’t lie, my friends.

So now that we’re really in deep here, are you ready for the second part of my secret? Oh yeah, there’s a second part. Because I’m nothing if not mysterious. An enigma, wrapped in a riddle, wrapped in bacon. That’s right, I said bacon. Stretchy pants, remember? So here’s our second layer of secrecy: those full-blown, up to your tits, flesh colored panel monstrosity pants I mentioned earlier? I miss them. I miss them every single day.

According to all manner of lady magazines, the correct designation for my figure is “apple-shaped”, because that’s much nicer than “flubber guts”, which is my own affectionate term. Really, being apple-shaped (as opposed to a banana or a kumquat, or some other, sexier fruit) simply translates to dopey supermarket checkers asking “when are you due?” on a semi-regular basis. My typical response is something along the lines of, “32 months ago, thank you very much! Now, hand over the pint of Ben & Jerry’s – I have feelings to eat!” Bonehead store clerks notwithstanding, the most unpleasant thing about having a round fruit-shaped physique is that there are no pants in the entire world that fit me properly. I’ve scoured the earth in search of jeans with pooch-concealing superpowers, but inevitably I find myself defeated by the evil, apple-hating clothing conglomerates and their unflattering dressing room lighting. If the ass of the pants fits, the waist does not. If the waist fits, I’m left with a butt that’s as sad and deflated and Lindsay Lohan’s hopes of being taken seriously as an actress. My beloved maternity pants were the only ones to ever save me from this humiliation. They let me squeeze myself into tushie-flattering sizes while concealing all that is wrong and evil. They were my muffin-top slaying wonder pants and without them my life is empty. And jiggly. So very jiggly.

So there you have it. I have bravely bared my soul and my stretchy waistband to you, dear readers. Judge me if you like, but I’ve had a taste of the good life and I don’t want to go back. So I’ll keep rocking those skinny jeans with the scarlet ‘M’ on the tag until they fall apart at the seams. Because ice cream is always better than sit-ups. Always.

Like Water for Ass Fat

Tomorrow morning, my son starts his parent-assisted swimming lessons.  Swimming.  In a pool.  Of water.  Which can mean only one terrible, horrifying thing – I will be wearing a bathing suit in public.  Fuck.  The very idea of this is enough to send me running for the hills.  Except I don’t know where these ‘hills’ actually are, and whether or not I’d need to pack a bathing suit for the trip.  Confession time:  with my son rapidly approaching the two year mark, I have not lost a pound of my baby weight.  Not one pound.  These two years have been a steady cycle of grand plans and even grander failures.  Sure fire workout regimens that lose every time when pitted against the decadent possibility of an extra ½ hour of sleep.  Diets that last mere days before cries of “Ah fuck it!  Where’s the chardonnay and Doritos?”  (A most refined pairing indeed).  Good intentions never fully realized have left my body a sad caricature of its former va va voom.  Arms jiggling, I have waved the white flag of surrender and succumbed to the ravages of motherhood.

A dutiful consumer of celebrity gossip rags, I am well aware of the potential of the postpartum female form.  If Jessica Alba can look like that in bikini four months after squeezing out her second child, surely I should have my shit together after two years.  Right?  Sigh!  Certainly I would never claim I had J-Alb’s abs of steel, even pre-baby.  But now I look down to find a blobby little pot full of tapioca where my stomach used to be.  Crepey purple stretch marks cover my belly, back and upper thighs.  Two sad, saggy breasts inhabit the space where a once glorious rack used to take real-estate, like the dilapidated remains on a once prosperous city.  They’re the Flint, Michigan of tits.  In a nauseatingly transparent ploy to get laid, John Mayer once told some girl “Your Body is a Wonderland”.  My body, on the other hand, is more like a fun house mirror.  But alas, despite my body image issues, the boy-child must learn to swim.  And so, I prepare to step before the firing squad.  My blindfold, an asexual “mom suit” with cleverly placed ruching and tummy control panel.  Any last words, you ask?  Sorry no, it isn’t polite to talk with your mouth full.