Monday morning started off fairly normal for me. I woke up early. I paid some bills. I played with my girls. (We made and decorated fairy dolls!!) We ate a yummy lunch. While my youngest was taking a nap, I hopped in the shower. (Originally, I had plans to run to the grocery store later in the day, so I wanted to utilize the opportunity to take a kid-free shower. That notion lasted approximately 30 seconds, before I turned around and found my oldest standing outside the shower doors, completely naked. *sigh*)
After I showered (and my toddler played with mermaids on the shower floor), we got out and started to get dressed. My daughter chose a clean pair of pajamas, stating she wanted to stay "warm and comfy, until ballet class." I chose my standard jeans and tshirt. All were blissful. All were enjoying the day. Then, I started to put on my jeans.
My first leg went in without hesitation. The second leg went in, as well, but I specifically remember thinking, "Why do I feel like my legs are pinched so close together?" I continued to put the jeans on, pulling them up toward my waist. (That in itself was a sheer act of willpower. I had to continuously shift from left to right, stop breathing, and jump up and down on one foot, while pulling with all my might, before the jeans finally came up over - what I knew to be the largest part of my body, but nothing abnormal or scary - my butt.) I was completely stunned, as I looked down, trying to comprehend what was happening. I quickly turned away from my bathroom mirror, in order to look over my shoulder at the back pockets of my jeans in the reflection. (Every female, whether they admit it or not, has at least one pair of "fat" jeans and one pair of "skinny" jeans. Occasionally our weight will fluctuate a bit. Not to the "Buy an Entire New Wardrobe" point, but to either the "Bad, Bloaty Period/I Hate Myself for Eating All Those Cookies" or - what we all strive for - the "OMG!! I LOOK AMAZING! I AM WEARING MY SKINNY JEANS THAT I LAST WORE NEVER!!!") The mirror confirmed what I already knew (but for whatever reason needed concrete proof), I was wearing a REGULAR pair of jeans. Jeans that are included in my normal jean rotation. Knowing this (with the mirror to back me up), I attempted to button the jeans. (In retrospect, I should have stopped at the, "Why do I feel like my legs are pinched so close together?" WHY I would insist upon disproving the "girl staring back in the glass" still remains a mystery - and haunts me in my sleep.) No dice! They would NOT button! (If I am being perfectly honest, it was not even close.) Still so deeply in denial, I found myself saying out loud, "That cannot be right!?"
Now, panic-stricken, I quickly stripped off the jeans. (Okay, fine. There was nothing quick about it, as they were basically glued to my legs. I found myself lying on the floor of my bathroom, while my 3 year old pulled the jeans from my ankles, as I grasped onto the bottom part of the closet door frame - hanging on for dear life, hoping my body would not rip in two. When we discovered the jeans were too tight/she was not strong enough, I cut them off with scissors.) I rushed into the closet off of my bathroom and frantically pulled out my scale. (My fears must have went from the internal to the external, as I heard my daughter ask, "Mommy, why are you praying?") As the numbers popped up, I stood there for a moment - AGAIN - unable to comprehend. Then, I found myself saying once more, "That CANNOT be right!?"
With a crazed look in my eyes (or so I imagine), I tore out of my bathroom and started sprinting to the door that leads downstairs, all while deliberating with myself, "See! I am not fat! Could a fat person run this fast?!" (When I found myself completely winded and unable to breathe at the bottom of the stairs, the truth began to set in.) Gasping for air, I - now more at a fast walking pace (FINE!! I WAS CRAWLING! BACK OFF!!) - made my way to my husband's bathroom. (Free Tip: This is the key to a successful marriage.) I opened his linen closet and pulled out his scale. "NO EFFIN' WAY! THAT.CANNOT.BE.RIGHT!?"
Although I was still in a wild frenzy (much like a feral cat), I WALKED back up the stairs. (I am fat, now, and fat people cannot run.) Five minutes later (used to take me five seconds), I returned to my bathroom and threw myself face down in the back of my closet floor. (1. I was absolutely exhausted from walking down AND up a flight of stairs, within a 10 minute span. 2. I remembered we own a fancy Tanita InnerScan BC-1000 plus ANT+ Radio Wireless Body Composition Monitor. FYI - This name is the company's nefarious way of selling consumers a scale, with money that should have gone toward their children's college fund.) After a bit of searching, I found the scale designed by astronauts. (Well, I had to tell my husband SOMETHING, so that he would think we got an AWESOME deal - rather than focusing on the fact we would be unable to feed our girls for a week, maybe two.) There she was, in all her glory - still in the box she was shipped in. (*sigh*) According to the receipt, she had been there since August 2013. (This explains why she was hidden so deeply in our closet. I, obviously, had to make certain my husband did not see the equivalent of one of our mortgage payments doing nothing more than accumulating dust.) After opening the box and finding my rescue inhaler (dust = acute asthma attack), I set up our time machine. (Sorry! Defense mechanism! The lies flow so freely, when discussing this scale. They HAVE to, in order to stay happily married.) I, then, hopped on Starship Enterprise and held my breath. (No, not due to fear of what the scale would say, but fear all the dust would send me into respiratory depression.)
At this point, I must have blacked out. I am uncertain if it was due to dust-induced hypoxia or the sheer HORROR of my circumstance. (All I know - I woke up on the floor, with my daughter poking me, trying to roll me over, and saying, "Mommy, wake up! Wake up, Mommy!" Of course, she could NOT roll me over, as I am a whale!) I pulled myself up to a sitting position and allowed the realization to fully set in. The realization that I have gained **19** pounds!!! NINETEEN! ONE.NINER! Furthermore, this ATROCITY took place in just a bit over **TWO** months! TWO MOTHERF*@#$%^ MONTHS!!
HOOOOOW did this happen?!?! How does weight almost the size of TWO AND A HALF average full-term newborns sneak up on someone?? Nineteen pounds is more weight than the United States Bowling Congress allows!! (16 lbs, for you fellow trivia buffs.) See those red bricks over there? I gained THREE of them!! Want to know what else weighs around 19 pounds?! A car tire. My KitchenAid mixer. ANY pharmacy school textbook sitting on my bookshelf. A little over two gallons of milk. My cat, Tobey.
Gaining 19 pounds is one thing. Being blissfully unaware it is happening is another! Seriously, how does someone gain 19 lbs and not even NOTICE?! Then, it hit me. (THOSE BITCHES!!) I purportedly have some very close friends. People who see me weekly, if not daily. People who are supposed to care about me and my well-being! Not ONE of those heinous jackasses took me aside and said, "As your friend, who loves you and cares about you, you need to know that you are becoming a hippopotamus. You need to get to the gym. You need to stop eating. You NEED to put down that bottle of wine!" What about my husband, who claims he would do anything for me and loves me unconditionally? Where were HIS comments of concern over my health?! My parents, who live next door?! Nope! Nada! NO ONE SAID A DAMN THING! Everyone just allowed me to fatten for slaughter! (They probably thought it was hilarious that the vegetarian was turning into a heifer!)
What would I like to say to those loved ones, now? EFFFFFFFF YOUUUUUU!! EFF.YOU.ALL! Once I lose these 19 pounds (OH, AND I WILL!!!), I am going to bend over and let each one of you kiss my PALE, SKINNY ASS!!
