That goes under the blog “Lazy Girl Problems.”

That’s Morgan in one of the thousands of bathrooms at the Opryland Hotel in Nashville.  She’s not paying attention to me because a) she’s known me for 3 years & expects weird behavior or b) she’s also a blogger & understands weird behavior.

Huge bathroom, right?  Plenty o’ stalls but I still had beef with them.  See, Morgan is a short gal by tall girl standards & her head hits the top of the stall door.  This was my view:

Nope, I’m not standing on my toes.

It created an awkward moment or five after I used the facilities & had to scoot my shapewear back up over my rear.  & by “scoot,” I mean wiggled back & forth in a chicken dance until I was out of breath & my underwear was shoved up my ass, but my shapewear was on & up under my boobs so I just called it a success.  A panting, sweaty success.

That everyone got to witness as the top of my head bobbed around over the door & I looked like a drunk fish on the line.

Trout, anyone?

Let me just say that I can stand in a board room or jet across the country, but I turn into a complete wuss once I step through Michaels.  All those women with glue stick burns on their fingers, willing to cut a bitch over the last vial of Martha Stewart glitter?  THEY TERRIFY ME.  Same thing with fabric stores.  Also, the strangest thing happens that once I hit the first aisle, I completely forget what I was there for.  Confidence takes a crash & burn so I stand there in the aisles, completely overwhelmed by the choices in felt.

In short:
Before Michaels:  BIG SPARKLY INSPIRATIONAL UNICORNS OF HAPPINESS!

After Michaels:  I WILL NEVER ACHIEVE ANYTHING GOOD IN MY LIFE.

yeah.

I’m standing in line with Harry in the push cart & a matronly lady turns to me.

“Is your mother’s name Karen?” she asks.

“No,” I say politely.

“You look like my friend Karen, so I figured you must be her daughter,” she explains.  I shrug.  Raleigh is a pretty decent-sized city.

“With two children, I figured you had to be her,” she persists.

Is this lady drunk?  I only have one child in the seat & I’m pretty sure the firstborn’s that were traded for Christmas Cricuts weren’t eligible for the 40% off coupon.  Like I said, I’m on a budget so if it’s not on sale, it’s not in my cart.

“You know,” she says.  ”With your boy & the one on the way.”

oh.

shit.

Awkward silence abounds.

Does this lady not know Rules of Feminism #253: Don’t ask a woman if she’s pregnant unless the fetus is 75% down the birth canal with a hand waving?

Which is why a part of me died inside today when a lady walked up to me at a work luncheon, rubbed my tummy & said, “Oh, you’re…!!”  Mortified & beat red, I said, “Oh, no!!  No, of course not!”

I expected her to pull back & shrink away in defeat.

Until she said, “No?  Really??”

THEN A HOLE IN THE FLOOR OPENED UP & SWALLOWED ME.

(oh, wait.  that didn’t happen.  i just wish it had.)

Except I DO look knocked up today.  Frickin’ 1950′s style dresses with twirl skirts.  I quit you.

This is serious.  Stop laughing.

If you’ve had a baby, you know what I’m talking about.  If you’ve had a baby & don’t know what a FUPA is, Google it & then you’ll know what I’m talking about.  (I’m terrified of the spam & creepy followers I would receive if I explained what a FUPA is in great detail on here.)  In short, it is this:

That delightful pudge of baby fat/skin LOW below your belly button that will not go away.  & yes, I WENT THERE – that’s my bare after-baby belly at 10 months postpartum.

You know, the reason “mom jeans” were created.

PEOPLE.  There is a reason that mom jeans exist.

It’s because THEY ARE AWESOME.

I was all, “I’m NEVER going to wear mom jeans” & swore off anything that came within two inches of my belly button starting at the tender age of 15.  Britney Spears, I’m looking at you to thank blame for years of my ass crack hanging out.  I celebrated the day that I finally fit back into my pre-baby jeans, twirling around in their hip-hugging glory, trying to convince myself that they looked just like they used to.

This.  Is.  A.  Lie.

I may be under my pre-pregnancy weight & those jeans may technically fit & zipper, but the flap of fat & skin draping over the button is totally new.

Which gives me three options:

Option One:  Pre-FUPA hip-baring ho jeans. Let the jeans button & zipper underneath your pudge, allowing it to drape gracefully over the zipper.  Please note that jutting hip fat is inevitable.  If you brave these, rock a flowing shirt.  Please.

Option Two:  Afraid to commit to mom jeans. You tried.  You really, really tried & swallowed the pride you felt ten years ago to purchase a pair of jeans that creep slowly upward to the belly.  But darlings…all this gets you is a spare tire & a Walmart belly when the button saws your gut in half & creates two pooches – one above & one under.  Also?  This hurts.  I know from experience.

Option Three:  Mom jeans. Look how slim!  Look how glorious!  All unnecessary residual pouches of fat are contained into one streamline look!

When I first fit into my (fake! gasp!) Sevens, they totally did Option One.  Until I hiked them up, gave myself a camel-toe wedgie & somehow managed to pinch my organs in half with the belt band without causing internal bleeding for two hours.  A MIRACLE.

Then I gave up.  I accepted my reality & gave in to the dreaded mom jeans.

& you know, they’re really not that terrible.  A little more spandex, a little higher rise & honestly, I can breathe.

FUPA contained.  Mission accomplished.

Hi, I’m Blair.  I’m 27 & I am a proud sporter of mom jeans.

edited to add:

My favorite mom jeans?  Mirclebody jeans.  I wear a size 14 in the Samantha bootleg style.  I had no idea these even existed until I snagged a free pair as swag at Blogher & immediately became a convert.

Also, Miraclebody has no idea that I’m writing this post.  They have no idea who I am, unless they remember the freakishly tall girl that tried on five pairs of jeans to find the right size & fit.

]]> http://theheirtoblair.com/2010/09/09/mom-jeans/feed/ 98 http://theheirtoblair.com/2010/08/02/im-getting-all-sniffly-sentimental/ http://theheirtoblair.com/2010/08/02/im-getting-all-sniffly-sentimental/#comments Mon, 02 Aug 2010 15:59:25 +0000 heirtoblair http://theheirtoblair.com/?p=3843 Because y’all?  This day has the full-on recipe to suck.

Nate threw out his back.  Which meant we had to carpool in, even though our days of carpooling were supposed to end today.  I spilled something oily on my dress, which makes it look like I dripped water, except it’s totally dry.  & since we carpooled & Nate took the Subaru, I had to borrow my sister’s car, which is so old that it was used when I drove it over 10 years ago.  It smells like the moon roof hasn’t been closed in 3 years.  Because it hasn’t.  Which is all fine & dandy, except it didn’t start.  So I was running late.  Also?  I got a call reminding me that I have a dentist appointment tomorrow.

I know my life doesn’t suck.  But I could have really used more of this today:

Except I don’t have a car today.  Which means I have no hope of getting more coffee or taking my shoes to the shoe-repairman-who-probably-has-a-more-glorified-title-than-shoe-repairman.

Anyway.  Back to my life kinda sucking except not really sucking at all because if a dirty dress is the worst of my problems, then girlfriend, I HAVE GOT IT MADE.

I was full prepared & braced for today’s McFatty.  Fully prepared for somebody to be an asshole.  Because even though yes, I’m putting it out there & yes, I ask for whatever comes my way as a blogger, I think I’ve developed a low-lying form of PTSD when it comes to asshole commentors.  & I was terrified what someone would have to say about the fact that I gained, I lost, I gained more, I slowly lost, but not really & here I am frustrated.

& then, of course, I would be forced to seriously contemplate buying out the Twix in the vending machine because in my post-adolescent angst I will swear that I SHALL NEVER BE SKINNY AGAIN a la Scarlet O’Hara, & then do another 10 giveaways in a span of 24 hours just to annoy everyone on the planet, & then my head would explode.

& it never came.  Instead, I had very sweet comments.  Encouragement.  Nutrisystem putting me in touch with their dietary folk (::fistbump::).  About how I could do this, I’m an inspiration, I’ve come so far.

Y’all, I apologize.  I underestimated how AMAZINGLY AWESOME you are.  I promise, I’ll never do it again.

It was so easy to drop the baby weight & then the Harpie weight.  They both felt like baggage that I had to lose to move forward in life.  I was miserable with the baby weight, miserable still carrying around a bit of my first pregnancy – daily reminders of what happened to my body throughout a course of a year.  So I took them off.  Simple as that.  No frills, no empty promises, no fluffy reasons.  I was miserable, the pounds were adding to that, so I took them off.

I’m a very cut-&-dry person, if you haven’t been reading this blog & paying attention for, I don’t know, 2 seconds.

& then I got stuck.  I gained weight in the hospital & have had a terrible time re-shedding these last 7 lbs to be back at my pre-hospital weight.  At first, I chalked it to medication (which, in part, is true – I’m on meds that increase my appetite & slow my metabolism).  Then I chalked it up to being lazy (but then I started exercising again).  I tried motivating myself with McFatty Monday (come on, Blair…everyone’s going to see you being a fatty again!).  Motivating myself with competition (she’s skinnier than you! & her baby is younger than yours!).  Motivating myself with events (Blogher is coming up & I MUST MUST MUST lose some pounds!).  & I think I’ve realized that my problem was not motivation or laziness but LACK OF AN END.

I told Nate repeatedly that I was frustrated because I felt like I was ALWAYS losing weight.  At first, I said 180 lbs as my end weight, then backed it up to 170 lbs.  & then I felt miserable.  My little “goals” of wedding weight, weight for kicks, etc. didn’t matter anymore.  Like damn…I’ve lost 30 lbs and I STILL have 30 left to go?!  Daunting.

& so, friends, I’ve decided to make an obtainable goal that has an end.

I’m going to lose another 20 lbs.  & that’s it for now.  I’ll be doing this with Nutrisystem because I’ve proven that it works.  I took off 35 pounds easy-peasy.  I can do 20 with them.

Basically, I’m committing to losing Harrison.  To hitting that even 180 lbs again.  & I won’t think of any numbers past that.  Because when I do, I start feeling overwhelmed by the entire process & intimidated by the idea of success.

When really, I just need to shed the kid.

Why is it that weight loss is such a journey?  (& why does it always feel like such a whiney one?)  I wish I could wave a magic wand that made every week be fantastic, that made medications not alter appetite, that made it easy to admit that I just couldn’t hack it when it came to losing another round of big numbers.  Is it because I’m afraid of success?  Am I afraid to be deserving of good things, to want good things for myself, & to make them happen?  In weight loss, but maybe even in life?

Is your weight loss journey teaching you anything about yourself?

required disclaimer: i am being supplied with nutrisystem food by nutrisystem, free of cost to me.  sweet, right?  but i assure you, i began nutrisystem on my own in january, spent my own money for 4 months, & fully endorse the program.  i’m just thankful that they’ll be helping me out on my last leg of the journey!  to join me on the Nutrisystem program and to receive a special offer, call 1-877-704-0597 or click here.

It’s only the most delicious fast food ever.  Fried chicken, fries with Bo Spice aka a special spice they sprinkle on top, biscuits, mmmmmmm….

I am not quite sure what happened – I was standing there, minding my own business & perusing the baby blanket aisle for a gift for my buddy, when all of a sudden I hear a *huff* & the screeching tires of a stroller about to pop a wheelie or figure eights.  & in a blur, you & your stroller & friend blew behind me like a bee stung your ass.

& your friend whispered, “That was pretty rude.”  She sounds like a good girl with common sense.  You should keep her around because your response was a very, very loud, “Well, her FAT ASS WAS IN MY WAY & she wouldn’t move.”

Emphasis on fat.  Emphasis on ass.  Emphasis on you looking back at me to make sure I heard it.  Me & the rest of the shopping congregation.

Look, honey.  I don’t know you.  I don’t know your name, where you’re from, or whether or not you were actually raised in a barn (although I have my speculations).  I do know that you don’t know me from Joe Blow & that prior to your explosion heard all the way to the register about the enormity of my derriere, there was no request for me to move.  There was no subtle cough.  There was no coquettish giggle as you apologized & leaned over me to get to the product you desired.  There was no brightly chirped “Excuse me!”  Nothing that registers polite on Emily Post’s Give-A-Shit-O-Meter.

& even if you did one of these things & I was so immersed in deciding whether this baby should be welcomed in fleece or thermal (which is doubtful) that I didn’t hear you, there was obviously enough room for you to go around me without causing a scene.

But you did cause a scene & the bottom line is, you called me a fat ass today.  & it hurt my feelings.

So this is where I sit you down with a cup of coffee & talk to you, Mano a Mano.  Woman to woman, mother to mother.  QUIT BEING A BITCH.  There was absolutely NO NEED for you to yell that I have a fat ass simply because I was doing what customers do – stand in an aisle.  Only I am allowed to say that, & even that is only after I’ve eaten a cheeseburger & then decided to try on new jeans.  (I also use the word “dumb ass” quite a bit in that situation)  There was absolutely no reason for you to say it at all, but you did.  At the top of your lungs, with a glance back at me to be sure I heard.  TO BE A BITCH.  So let me push your bangs out of your face & tell you this – IT’S NOT WORTH IT.  Quit the bitch.  Tuck that inner cat fight away into a drawer – nay, a coffin – & let her die.  She’s not cute, she’s not sassy, & she’s not that weirdly-cute-snobby that can be really funny.  She’s obnoxious, hurtful, & she sounds ignorant.

Really?  A fat ass?  That’s the best you can do?  I bet you didn’t know that I just lost 35 lbs.  I bet you didn’t know that like you, I just gave life pretty recently.  Or that I’m wearing a shirt that is too small for me today because my kid spat oatmeal all over my first outfit today.  There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, based on looking at me.  That you’ll never know, because you were too busy letting your inner bitch do the talking.

& let’s face it, if I hadn’t let them take my inner bitch away to be composted with my placenta eight months ago, or my anti-psychotics working quite so well in this moment, I would have asked you what number your hair color was so that I could have it permanently banned from the universe.

love,
A (semi) Reformed Bitch

You know that awful place where you go running to Facebook every 15 minutes after a party or holiday, just to make bloody sure nobody tagged you in a picture?  Where you tell your kid to just hold the bottle himself because OH MY GOD, what if your cousin put up one of those pictures from Christmas morning where you’re in yoga pants with a local brewery t-shirt that used to fit back when you were 40 lbs lighter?!  & people are all, Wow! Blair really does like her beer but come on, sweetie, lay off the hops because they are LOADED WITH CALORIES.  & sometimes, you lie awake at 11:30 at night wondering if the person behind you in line at Target knew you were still wearing maternity pants even though maternity leave is pretty much over?

In the words of the State Farm commercial….I’M THERE.

So let’s talk about postpartum.  It sucks.  Every pregnant woman envisions the weight falling off beautifully with folks whispering in the back pew of church, “How did she do it?!”  They envision perfectly applied make-up, highlighting the glow of “I just had a baby!”  Sure, some mothers manage it.  But let me blow the lid right off – THEY ARE FREAKS OF NATURE.  They are not normal.  They might even be aliens.  Let me tell you, folks…that “glow?”  It’s the light reflecting off glazed eyes that are constantly watering with hormones & WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO ME?! I was bruised in places that I didn’t know could bruise (the inside of my wrist & the bottom of my arse cheeks), & I’m not convinced that Harrison didn’t shatter part of my pubic bone.  I bled off & on for 9 weeks.  Sometimes like a stuck pig when I was least expecting it..like grocery shopping at 5 weeks when I thought the lochia was done & then WHAM! I’m running out of the grocery store like a twelve-year-old, hoping the popular boys don’t see the stain on my pants.  I thankfully escaped hemorrhoids during birth (’twas a miracle) only to be greeted by internal hemmies two weeks after delivery (after speaking to friends, this is surprisingly very common & unfortunate).  I only just got my wedding band back on two weeks ago, but I still have cankles from the swelling.  I have stretch marks on my knees.  I look like Nate took a cat-o-nine tails to my hips.  & the joy of my stomach deflating so quickly has been completely sucker-punched out of me because honestly…after the first week, it didn’t get much better.  & there is a spare tire of skin that spans about 2 feet from my upper thighs to my ribs, adding several inches to my girth in pure rubbery skin & lard.  & just when you get comfortable in the “mom uniform” of horribly fitting jeans & t-shirts, you realize —   I go back to work in two weeks.  Which means looking presentable in clothes that fit.

I thought motherhood would make me want to roar out to the universe how incredibly awesome I am because I created 8 lbs of life & then pushed it out of something the size of a small fruit, but to be completely frank, I have not felt this uncharacteristically self-conscious & timid since sophomore year of high school.

Like I said, it’s tough.  I look at Harrison & know that what I did this past year that caused this horrendous body is noble, beautiful, & miraculous.  I should look in the mirror with my chin up, knowing that I CREATED LIFE.  I don’t consider myself a brood mare for Nate’s male urge to populate Earth, but I did what I was built to do.  What I was intended to do.  & I did it well.  That should make me feel like freakin’ Superwoman, no?   Maybe it’s the down of coming off the high of pregnancy — minus the swelling, I felt beautiful when I was pregnant.  Even with stretch marks & a vastly spread rear, I felt incredibly gorgeous.  But now when I look in the mirror, I can’t help but want to cry.

It’s not just that I’m “bigger.”  It’s that my body is 100% completely unrecognizable in both shape, texture, & mass.  The belly is best described by my girlfriend Lala, who has long stated that a postpartum belly looks like a bear took it’s claws & went to town on a deflated balloon.  Instead of wearing a 12/14 in pants, I’m squeezing into an 18.  But I need a long (Jolly Green Giant, remember?).  Good luck finding an 18 long in-store.  & miraculous to find an 18 long on sale, but DAMN, I don’t have $90 to spend on a pair of pants.  Unless I only want one pair.  FRUSTRATION.  & you’d think it would help that Nate still thinks I’m a hot little keg he’d like to tap, but the idea of squeezing into my lingerie makes me want to cringe into a corner.  Because honey, I KNOW you love that little orange silk number from Victoria’s Secret that is reminiscent of J.Lo’s infamous green dress, minus the maxi-length, but it doesn’t fit.  So please stop bringing it up.  If you want to get laid, there are rules — lights dimmed, sheets over me, condom on.

I don’t know if I’ll ever look the same.  Doubtful.  It’s funny, ever since having a baby, I can totally look at someone & know they have birthed a child.  It’s something in the spread of the hips.  Which is terrifying, considering my hips were wide enough prior to Harrison, thankyouverymuch.  & I wonder how long it will take me to accept this, considering it took me a solid 18 years to grasp my previous shape & embrace my height.  The good news is, I think every single person out there hates their body after a baby, unless you’re one of those lucky bitches that actually looks better after a baby.  (we had one of those in my family.  she got Survivor’ed)

Although I will say, there is one fantastic result of having a baby — I NEVER HAVE TO WEAR A BIKINI EVER AGAIN.  Let the Heavens open with praise!  I have a fantastic excuse to never stress myself into 3 scraps & some string during the hot summer days.  Because y’all, I had a baby.  I happily get to cut myself some slack in the bathing suit area.  Gone are the days in March & April where bikini season looms & I eat only one piece of cheese right before I nearly pass out (name that movie).  I fully plan on always wearing a one-piece from this point on & as long as I look athletic, I find that very deliciously soothing.  Silver lining, folks.

As a direct result of my birthday bingeing on food, I fear the scale. FEAR. Irrationally, of course. Because I am a) pregnant & therefore supposed to gain weight and b) the doctor side-eyed my lack of weight gain at the last appointment. Don’t worry, Doc…I have single-handedly taken care of that weight “problem” in the past 24 hours. In fact, I may have been an over-achiever & we may be having the OPPOSITE discussion today.

I’m now going to pick out the lightest article of clothing I own to try negating the Blooming Onion I shoved down my throat the other night.