Sunday, January 18, 2009
putting the "ass" in masochism
6 months postpartum with Biscuit in fav jeans vs. 6 weeks postpartum with T.Rex
Some would argue that being a mother is the definition of "masochism". After all, your needs become lower on the hierarchy than clean socks for three other people and "More apricots, pease".
But today, I endured something even more cruel: shopping for jeans with a postpartum body.
Seriously, don't do it.
I have only one pair of jeans that currently fit, and I hate 'em. The pockets are too low and the buttons are on this tab that pokes out through my shirt like an origami umbilical hernia. So I sadistically convinced Dr. Crog to sit in the car with the kids while I bravely went forth to Old Navy and found a pair of "interim jeans". You know, just until my cute ones fit again. In about 6 months.
First, I gathered all the jeans with potential in my usual size, the size i've been since my early 20's: an 8. With a couple of 10's from my high school days, just in case. HA.
Ha ha ha. HA.
I somehow totally forgot that whole "baby rearranges things cruelly" thing.
Dejected, I thumped 67 pounds of disappointment/denim on the Old Navy counter and hoofed it back out, gathering jeans in 12's and 14's. And, yeah, i'll admit it here. Even some of those were too small. The ones that did fit... didn't fit. Unpleasant wrinklery, booty gaps, and the dreaded muffin top.
Were I a lesser woman, I would have thrown myself to the floor and sobbed my self-esteem into water spots on "the Flirt" jeans and their sassy patch pockets.
But I am not a lesser woman. I am a perpetual optimist who is able to gloss over most of the painful bits of life with reasons, excuses, or downright amnesia. So I reminded myself that Old Navy jeans have *never* fit me. Like, ever. Of the top 10 pairs of jeans in my life, 9 were from Target and 1 was from Kohl's. Old Navy ain't made for junk in ye olde trunke.
Expecting *this* body to fit into Old Navy jeans of any size is an exercise in futility. And masochism.
It's not me.
It's not the 30 pounds I gained while pregnant, 18 of which are still in my possession.
It's not the nursing pudge.
It's Old Navy.
This is not my fault.
And just to reassure myself that this is not my fault, I came home, changed back into my super-comfy-size-medium pajama pants and ate half a piece of my defrosted birthday cake out of the freezer. And by defrosted, I mean that I had to let it thaw first, not that it was missing frosting.
Because then, what's the point?
My plan is this: next week, while Biscuit is in preschool, i'll go to Target and find some nice, stretchy jeans that make me feel good about myself. And then i'll go to my mom's house and play Wii Fit for an hour, to cancel out 3 molecules of today's cake.
And then i'll wait 6 months and put on my J-Lo jeans and photoshop myself back into photos of the art exhibit. Full circle!