My legs look like lollipops, the kind Dorothy receives in Munchkin Land. Upper thighs that are too round and too fleshy for the rest of the limb. They’re giant circles on sticks. My stomach sticks out like I’ve just eaten fourteen tacos. I blame low-rise pants for my muffin top. My son is almost four and I still use “it’s baby weight” as an excuse for not fitting into old jeans I refuse to throw away.
Before I became pregnant with Dane, I was effortlessly thin thanks to my former coworker, Alicia. Alicia introduced me to the world of online pharmacies and Phentermine. And, thanks to Phentermine, I was able to live happily on fat-free, sugar-free, double-shot vanilla lattes, Diet Coke (for the times I got hungry) and white wine. Now and then I’d indulge in a salad or cereal, but only if I went to the gym that morning. Healthy, right? Absolutely not, but I looked good. I felt powerful. I loved going into Banana Republic on the Third Street Promenade and trying on tons of clothes in small sizes. I thought I was a complete sexpot, which is likely how I became pregnant without even trying. No small feat considering my husband, Mark, was traveling to Miami for work and I only saw him on the weekends.
“I have a small frame, I don’t think I can gain more than twenty or twenty-five pounds,” I told my mother when she said I was going to gain weight. Huh. It’s funny how easy it is to pack it on when one goes off the Phentermine and actually eats. I gained five pounds from the time I peed on the stick to my first prenatal checkup three weeks later. I quit working and cooked lavish dinners on the nights Mark and I didn’t go out and chow down on Indian food.
August 2006: Cold Stone Creamery. Mark and I were there for our bi-, sometimes tri-weekly dose of Peanut Butter Perfection. Vanilla instead of chocolate ice cream, please. Well, yes, I would like extra peanut butter. So sweet of you to offer! There was a line out the door and in I waddled, eight months pregnant and forty-five pounds heavier. The debit card machine was on the fritz and we didn’t have any cash. The cheerful ice cream artist flashed a toothy grin and loudly said, “Oh, it’s okay! We know you—you’re here all the time! It’s our treat today.” The other customers looked at us and all I could think was: you big, fat pig. You’re lucky you’re pregnant. But I’m a vegetarian, the making-excuses side of me said. I eat really well usually and I’m pregnant! I should be able to eat ice cream—the baby needs the calcium!
The next month Dane was born, perfect in every way. I nursed for just six weeks, giving up after two back-to-back breast infections. The online pharmacy I relied upon in the past had been shut down, so I couldn’t get my Phentermine. Bummer: I would have to lose weight the old fashioned way, by watching what I put into my mouth and exercising. I joined Stroller Strides, determined to burn thirty pounds of excess ass, hip and leg fat off as soon as possible.
I’m an immediate gratification sort of girl, and when I wasn’t back in the Banana Republic dressing room admiring my svelte figure within a month, I got annoyed and quit Stroller Strides. Started eating more. Eventually I lost all but twelve of the original pounds, rationalizing I was just going to get pregnant again, so why kill myself trying to lose weight now? I’ll just go gung-ho after the second baby.
That second baby, Kylie, will be two in July. Am I back in fighting form? Nope, not even close. I’ve starved off a few pounds here and there, over-exercised, counted calories, did a cleanse which is really just an overpriced version of Slim-Fast. Last month I had a cold that lingered for close to three weeks. I discovered that if I took four Sudafed instead of the recommended two, I didn’t want to eat and was able to whiz around my house like a crack fiend.
Everything I’ve done has worked: several times I’ve been within two or three pounds of my pre-Dane, Phentermine weight. But then something would happen: the baby would get sick, Mark would work too much, it would rain for eleven straight days, and I’d sneak into the pantry and shovel cashews into my mouth. And the ass would balloon once more.
I’m done fighting with my body. It has to stick around for the next sixty years so I can watch my grandchildren graduate from medical school. Starting today, it’s everything in moderation. Be healthy and set a good example for my family. Exercise, don’t pig out, don’t starve. I’ll let you know how it goes.
