I did something stupid.
I stepped on the scale.
I noticed my love handles expanding a few days ago, but then later I had one of those mornings where I hadn’t put on my glasses yet and thought I don’t look that fat today. So that’s where the scale came in.
I thought maybe it had overlooked that I am working out less and eating more. I thought maybe it was forgiving me for not stepping on it much recently and was going to reward me with a nice number under 150. I didn’t think. The reality hit me like a sack of potatoes to the back of the head.
I am a chubster.
You all know by now that over five years ago I had a baby. Well, once I returned home from the hospital, I stepped on the scale. What I weighed then is what I weigh now. Eeks. This time I don’t have a child growing inside of me to blame.
So I will continue to blame having a baby for forever ruining a woman’s figure. It does. Well, it did mine, at least. That coupled with my aversion for dieting and my lack of self-control around anything from the baked goods category. But we can blame lack of control on pregnancy too, right? (I hear all these stories about bladder control going out the window after child #2).
I know Denise Richards and Kelly Ripa and Heidi Klum and all these other skinny blond bitches had no problem going back to washboard abs and perky tits. Well, I live in reality – you know, that place separate from personal trainers and catered meals under a daily calorie count of 2,000 (gasp). So hello, 155. Welcome you couple extra straggling LBs that just made it on board. We’ve been expecting you. After all, I live in reality.