I just pulled out my fat pants again.
My detested I-KNEW-I-should've-skipped-dessert-for-the-past-month pants. My I-wish-I-hated-french-fries pants. My I-have-no-more-excuses pants.
I'm not exactly sure when I noticed it happening, but I can pinpoint the precise moment I started to regain the weight I had so expertly dropped after pregnancy. Allison gave up breastfeeding, but I didn't give up eating for two.
So the calories I used to be burning by making milk started turning into fat globules on my ass cheeks instead.
In my defense, it is incredibly hard to switch gears after being the sole provider of nutrition for yourself and another human being -- in the womb and out -- for almost two years. It's tough to go from being able to eat an entire continent of food and still lose weight to inexplicably turning into a continent by continuing what has become your regular eating habits.
I remember when I came home from the hospital, I wanted to cry at the shape my poor body was in. Nothing fit. Not even my skin on what used to be my toned midsection. I didn't recognize myself.
But my persistence with breastfeeding paid off in more ways than I had ever expected. Not only was my daughter thriving, but the pounds just sort of melted away without even THINKING about working out, let alone actually doing so. Before I knew it, I was sliding into my skinny jeans without looking like I was wrestling an anaconda while I struggled to zip them up.
And all of a sudden, I wasn't out of breath when I got to the top of the steps at my office. I used that as a litmus test after pregnancy. When I'm fit, I can run two at a time without feeling winded. When I'm not, I still take two at a time, but I'd like a person to be waiting for me halfway, holding a cup of water and shouting encouragements like they do on the sidelines of a marathon.
"C'MON, KELLY! YOU CAN DO IT! YOU'RE HALFWAY! KICK THOSE FAT GLOBULES' BUTTS!"
I know what I have to do because I've done it before.
I know I need to prepare better meals so I'm not constantly forced to run for takeout while I'm at work. I know I need to throw out the other half of Allison's lunch instead of eating it just because I don't want it to go to waste. I know I need to pass on the delectable cookies that my coworker brings in from his mother's bakery. Or maybe just eat one instead of 14.
I also know I need to resume working out, but that's something I'm not sure I can do without some intervention. I can't do it at home anymore because Allison would affix herself to my legs and I'd end up trampling her to death. So I'd need a gym with day care, but there isn't one within a reasonable driving distance. Plus, when I get as little sleep as I do, finding the energy to keep my eyelids open is tough enough, let alone coordinating my limbs to do actual physical activities.
Then there is an ongoing list of other excuses like cost, finding time in my already overbooked schedule and lack of workout gear that is acceptable to wear in public.
On top of that? I have to summon the willpower and motivation.
I'm hoping my fat pants will be the inspiration I need.
Otherwise, Allison won't need floaties in the pool this summer. I'll just instruct her to grab onto my globules.