I do not wage against flesh and blood.
Nay.
I fight against something far more evil... something of a cotton-blend variety.
That something is ... my pants.
There is no love between us. I hate all of them: My maternity jeans that are so ragged out and ripped, my supposedly "fat jeans" that I still can't get
I hate all of them.
I broke down and bought a super large pair in hopes that at least I might be "comfortable" and perhaps avoid the muffin top effect, but even they have their fatal flaws - namely they fall down after they are are stretched out by my "dunlop."
What? You don't know what a "dunlop" is? You know... as in, my stomach "dunlopped" over my pants.
Anyway, please understand that I do appreciate the task that my body went through to produce these 4 precious children, I honestly can accept some flab, stretch marks, widened hips... I get it, and I am grateful that my body was healthy enough to carry a baby - especially when my heart breaks for those who cannot or struggle to.
It's not that I cannot appreciate my body in it's current state, it's just that I really, really want some pants to fit me.
6 weeks post delivery, I am slowly coming to terms with the reality that I've reached the plateau. Delivery of the tiny tenant and nursing has done all it can do for me, and now I am going to have to get a bit engaged in this process.
Oh, how I stink at discipling myself in the area of food. And it is conceivable that I am even worse about exercise than I am about eating right.
Alas, I hear rummors that when people do these things consistently that they don't fight with their pants... at least not quite so much.
Maranda
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