I used to be hot, dangit. I used to be able to struggle with which bikini looked “coolest.”
Now, I spend hours searching online for a bathing suit with full coverage. If I look all “vintagy” this summer, it’s not a style choice.
I once wore a men’s polo shirt and a casual skirt to a gas station to grab pizza and got ogled for all the right reasons. Now, if anyone is staring it’s because that kind of casual look makes me look like I might be about to ask for money or crack.
I used to be able to drink 4 beers and never once consider the calorie content.
Now, I feel guilty about a single Mich Ultra.
I understand that between having two children and… well, let’s face it, getting older… your body is going to change.
When we were facing the real possibility of not being able to conceive, I prayed to God, “Please give me a baby. Take my body! Make me fat, just give me a baby!” Now, it’s like… “Just kidding, God… can I have my body back now?”
I was once insulted by an ex who said (while we were dating), “I’m done dating hot girls.”
A guy at work said, “She’s cute, except for those eyebrows.”
Another said, “She has a nice… face.”
Those kind of comments used to destroy me. (clearly, I still remember them plain as day)
Now, I would be like “Hey, he’s just into SMART, classy, pretty chicks.” “He said I’m cute!” “I have a nice face!”
I used to fish for compliments.
Now, I fish for reassurance.
I want to shop for clothes that express my personality.
But, my personality is still a 125-pound, uber tan waif who is 22 and childless. Can’t quite pull off the cutoffs and bra-less tank tops anymore.
I know, I know… My husband loves me and I’m not exactly morbidly obese. But, can’t I go back in time and tell my former self to appreciate my hotness? And then, can’t I tell that former self to workout even harder so that someday squeezing out a couple of kids wouldn’t change my body chemistry so dramatically that I can’t even comfortably wear shorts in public?
It all happened so fast. Over the course of just a handful of years it was like bam… husband… bam… baby… bam… another baby… and then WAH WAH… what happened?
I am being dramatic and self-loathing, which is also unattractive and makes me feel even worse. Vicious cycle.
New post-baby prayer: “God, please give me time. Time to workout every day, so I don’t continue on this depressing road toward over-sized shirts, fanny packs and kankles. I promise I won’t get a full-sleeve tattoo!”