This is not a pity party or anything else of the kind, but seriously, you should stop reading anyway.  This is all about my battle of the bulge.  Quit.  Reading.  Now.

          Today I went shopping.  I actually wound up buying a pair of shorts, 2 shirts, and a pretty cute skirt.  But you know what?  I wanted to cry in every dressing room.  I almost did in the first one.  It’s not about the numbers.  I don’t really give a rat’s ass what "size" I am.  I see women in my family, female friends, and just women in general who are the same "size" that I am and we all look different.  We don’t look better or worse at our size, we just look different.  And I love that.  But I hate that, too.  I hate the number that I don’t care about.  I hate the way clothing sits on me.  I hate that I have this pouch…  I love my babies and every stretch mark, pound of weight gained, and every prayer session spent with the porcelain god was worth it, but I really hate the way I look.  I hate that shorts just sit too low and my belly hangs over them, or that they sit too high and it looks like I am tucking something in my shorts.  I hate the way shirts sit on me.  What fits on my chest used to be huge around my middle and now it’s the other way around.  And the styles I love are very unflattering on me.  I hate that, too.

          I will say that I like my legs.  While they are "bigger" than legs found on most other women who are 5’3", they’re pretty rad until you get about 4 inches above my knee.  From that point down, they’re rock solid, toned, and tanned.  I do like that.  Put a small heel on my feet and they look even nicer.  So I got that goin’ for me. 

          I am not okay with my weight.  As much as I want to be, I’m not.  It’s not even so much the number, the size of my clothing, or the way I think other people look at me now, but it’s the way I carry it and the way things fall on me.  I feel like people are looking at me, thinking, "Man, what happened to her?"  I didn’t always look like this and it feels like I have just "let myself go."  I hate that phrase.  And honestly, I don’t do anything differently.  I used to work full-time and eat like a horse.  Now I work full-time, chasing my children, and eat a little bit better and a little bit less and I can’t seem to shake it.    And if I had known in high school that I would look like this at 23, I would have shown off a lot more than I did back then!  So, maybe it’s a good thing that I didn’t know.  *chuckle*

          I am not okay.  I keep looking at this site  wondering why I can’t be okay with my post-baby body.  Why does it matter?  DH is happy.  He claims to still be attracted and either my cup runneth over with pimp juice, or he’s telling the truth.   So why do I care?  WHY?

          Some days I feel like I really don’t give a shit any more.  That this is my body, deal with it.  If you don’t like it, stop fuckin’ starin’ at me!  But those days are rare…  And the days I want to take the kids swimming, which we all know involves a (holding my breath) bathing suit, are not the days I wake up not giving a rat’s ass.  And that sucks, too…

          Most days are days like today.  Days when looking in the mirror makes me want to cry…  So I get dressed and hope that nothing is sticking out like a sore thumb and that I don’t look like a dumbass.  Most days are days I don’t want to eat, but feel like I can’t stop…

          I want days of acceptance – fat or not.

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