Last week, Mom, Zoe, and I went shopping on my birthday. Zoe was the big winner of the day, coming home with a closetful of new outfits that she probably didn't so much need, but they're adorable, so there you go. That's not to say I didn't see anything I liked. Some stuff was a lot like other things I have in my closet and wear, so there was no point in buying more, since by rights, I should really hoe out the closet anyway.
But there was this one top in Penney's. It was a black sleeveless shell, with a subtle peplum and a belt, and was made of a fabric that looked like leather, but it wasn't. It was right up my alley, and as Mom agreed to keep Zoe occupied, I took a Size M and Size L (there was no Size S, but it probably didn't matter, as the fabric, while not leather, offered no stretch anyway) into the fitting room.
I've been packing on a few pounds lately, so I started out by trying on the Size L. Happily, it looked huge on me, like I'd cut a neck and armholes in a garbage bag and cinched a skinny belt around the middle. So I hung it back on the hanger nicely, wrapped the belt around it, and cinched it back up, just like I'd found it.
I was a little giddy, pulling on the Size M. I really loved the looks of this top, and I was imagining how I'd wear it as-is, while it was still warm, then add a long-sleeved top underneath when it got cold, making it sort of a pullover vest. I was thinking of all the places I could wear it, and already feeling a little bit cool and rock-starrish.
The reflection didn't match up with my expectations. The drop from the shoulders to the bust darts was too long for me, putting the bust darts an inch too low and making me look not like a rock star but a droopy-boobed fashion victim. I stood there in the mirror for more minutes than I really needed to, pinching at the fabric, wondering if I just took up the shoulders a little bit, would it render the armholes too small? What if I ran a seem down the sides, too? Nipped it in just a little more? Mmmmmmmaybe. But then I realized the top had a worse flaw than too-low bust-darts. It cut me off right at an awkward place, making me look shorter and wider than I already am. Having the peplum around the bottom didn't help matters much. That just added a horizontal line to confirm suspicions.
In disgust, I peeled the top off, hung it nicely back on its hanger, wrapped the belt around it, just like I'd found it. After all, it's not the Penney's sales associates fault that the clothes didn't fit me, so why should I pay forward my bad feelings and make them pick rejected Worthington shells off the fitting room floor? That's no way to be!
Before I put my own black three-quarter-sleeve fitted T back on, though, I looked at myself in the mirror. I was wearing a generic Spanx tank, which I bought in bulk the week after Zoe was born, to smooth things out and prevent back fat, and also to keep from exposing a lot of boobage while wearing a deep-V-neck. And I saw a chubster looking back at me. My London "Boyfriend" jeans with 4% spandex that I was wearing, that I always wear, which fit the best of any jeans I've had in my adult life, didn't really do anything for me. I looked short-legged, thick-legged, stocky. I figured it was just because I had the black Spanx-like tank tucked in, and things were cutting me off at a weird angle, so I put my own top back on. I think that made things worse. Now I looked chunky AND a little frumpy.
Didn't I remember looking in the mirror this morning and thinking I didn't look all that bad?
Well, maybe not. I was lucky enough to have "snapped back" after Zoe was born, pretty quickly. I had to pack away the maternity pants a week after she was born. I'm not bragging. I had a good base of muscle tone, I worked hard at keeping fit while pregnant, and then the rest is probably luck. I was also not a skinny-mini before I was pregnant. I was around 140, and I was back to that weight by New Year's. The scale has crept back up to 147, 150 in these last few weeks. 150 is the weight I held steady at for weeks during my pregnancy- until about the 20-week mark. I know, because I weighed myself every day and kept track in a notebook. I've been able to stay in the same pants and tops I wore before Zoe, and after Zoe. They're just a little tighter on some days than others. So I probably hadn't really, actually looked myself over that much in the mirror that day or any day in a while, really. What I was seeing in the mirror that day at Penney's wasn't an awful muffin top lopping over my jeans, or pronounced backfat, or an ass like the back of a bus, but I was seeing "thickness," "puffiness," just a lack of definition.
When I stomped out of the fitting room, I told Mom that if I could put my own clothes back on the rack and walk away that day, I would have, because I didn't like how they looked on me any more than I liked the way the top had.
I work out almost every day. I can do a hour-long intense step workout without being winded (tired, soaked in sweat, noodly muscles, yes, but not doubled over and struggling to breathe), I can lift heavy weights. I can lift up Rozzie, who weighs a good 70+ pounds and haul her up the stairs at a good clip. So I'm not so much out of shape. But it's a lie that I tell myself over and over that a) I weigh more because I have more muscle, and b) I work out a lot, so I can eat whatever I want.
The thing is, the kitchen trumps the gym, hands down. I know this, when I track what I eat. I can burn 400 calories in an hour, and then come up to the kitchen and wipe that out with one big spoonful of Nutella. Or six pumps of syrup in my coffee (really, all I need is about 3 to make it sweet enough). Or half a dozen cookies.
I know that a lot of factors can make a person carry more weight than they need. Sometimes it's an underactive thyroid. I had mine tested when I was 30, and it came back squeaky clean. I know I should probably go have this checked again, just for good maintenance, but I don't think underactive thyroid is my problem. Back when I had it tested, I kind of hoped that it was the problem, because then I could pop a pill, get all the levels straightened out, and be skinny! I know some people have metabolic disorders that cause them to burn what they eat veeeeeerrrrrrrrrrry sloooooooooooowly. Some people are genetically predisposed to be larger- they're the "big-boned" folks. I don't think I can use that excuse. And everybody says it's easier to put on weight and harder to take it off after you have a baby, but a lot of the fitness mentors I follow have had two or three babies and don't have this thick look like I do. Disorders like Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) can be both a result of being overweight and a contributing factor of overweightness. The jury's still out on whether or not that's a problem for me, but I've read that even if it is, as far as weight goes, it can be overcome with hard work- diet and exercise.
The thing about this current Big Fat Mess I have myself in is that I put myself in it. When I was younger, I enjoyed a fast metabolism, but I was never skinny (skinny's not what I'm going for, even now- I do have muscle buried like treasure under the layer of chub, and I want THAT to show through!). I never paid much attention to what I ate and got used to not having to, to stay reasonably thin. Then I'd lie to myself and say that since I work out, I don't really have to skip dessert. But the thing is, I don't have an excuse, and I don't have somebody else to blame this on. It's all me, and that really sucks.
Except, it kind of doesn't. See, instead of sitting helplessly by, lamenting that something- I don't know what, but something- is making me fat, and I don't have any control over it, and I'm just helpless to watch that scale creep up and up and up while I find bigger and bigger pants, I know that it's been my own bad habits that are making me a thicker version of myself than I want to be. I got myself into this big, fat mess. I have the power to get myself back out of it.
Yes, I do!
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