My fat co-worker (who’s not really fat but I don’t like her so I can talk smack) recently lost a bunch of weight and has apparently passed it on to me. She has really worked hard to lose her tummy pouch and I have really worked hard to gain it. How was I supposed to know that you can’t eat like you are pregnant even when you’re not and still stay trim and fit? It worked for me after my first child. Just because I’m almost 30 and have had a second child now doesn’t mean anything should have changed, dammit! I used to be one of those girls you hate that could eat anything and not gain an ounce. Now I officially hate those girls too!
I despise working out more than anything so I wouldn’t normally care so much about losing weight except that I find myself wearing my belly band from my pregnancy days because I can’t button my pants anymore and my form fitting shirts (pretty much all I own) are now incredibly unflattering and embarrassing (Dear God, please don’t let my picture show up on the People ofWal-Mart website. Amen). Like picking out clothes in the morning isn’t hard enough (thank you Catholic school for forcing me to wear uniforms all those years. I appreciate it now if that means anything) without having to worry about fat rolls and muffin top!
I suppose I should start working out. Perhaps eating less and eating healthier should be sprinkled in there too? But where’s the fun in that? What’s that saying? I want to go sliding into my casket with a martini, ripped stockings and yelling “WOO THAT WAS FUN!” Yeah, I’d like that. Except I don’t want to be sliding in because I tipped the bench I was sitting on because my ass was too fat.