After you give birth, you feel untouchable. Like you have achieved the most challenging of tasks, climbed the highest of mountains. As I was being wheeled from the delivery ward to the rooms, I felt like a victorious Rocky Balboa. My brain threw up her gangsta colors and shouted “I just added to the Earth’s population, bitches! What did YOU do today?!”Read More
I write this having just admonished myself for grabbing another Galaxy Ripple chocolate bar from the fridge. Every morning I wake up and promise myself “Green Juice!” as much as I dislike it, “No croissants!” even though I love me some real Viennoiserie, and “Vegetables!” though I really just want rice and pasta.
I wouldn’t call it “lying” to myself, really. I like to think I just start the day remarkably optimistic, considering I know how things will turn out by 6pm. This day though, this day shall be the day to change all others. This day I will finally be…healthy. And I’ll never look back.
Until tonight, when I will shame myself by thinking of all the shit I just ingested because I was tired, stressed, and hungry. Sigh.
I’ve tried to get excited about vegetables, I promise I have. They’re so…green. And FRESH! YAY! But as I miserably chomp on stalks of broccoli and asparagus, I can’t help but think that some Spaghetti Aglio e Oglio would go really well with it. Last week I met a friend for lunch at Fred’s and ordered a SALAD. No profiteroles. No Sancerre. It was depressing but she was a Size Two and I just couldn’t do it. I promptly came home and made up for it by inhaling my new delivery from Instacart. Damn you Instacart! I don’t even have the excuse of “Well, I walked to Fairway…sooo…!” It’s just…there. All the British goodies I love at the click of a button. Sure, I order healthy stuff too. That butternut squash has been taking up a significant portion of my fridge for a few weeks now. Is it still fresh, by the way?
I make complicated salads and mix in nuts to fill me up…but I’m hungry an hour later. My nanny stares at me eating these gourmet creations straight from the salad spinner, because, portions. I don’t have any receptacle large enough to fit a whole bag of baby spinach, walnuts, avocado and quinoa. A feeding trough, that’s the next step.
I was so thrilled at 7 weeks post-partum, when I could slip on my jeans again! Silly me, throwing away my maternity pants. “Where’d your belly go babe?’ asked Andy in wonder. Proudly I congratulated myself on my nursing schedule and my relatively healthy diet. If I could just keep this up, I’d be back into my wedding clothes in no time! But then…my mother left and reality (and fat cells) came raining down upon me. I went from getting 10 hours of sleep a night to waking up multiple times with the baby, sneaking treats from the kitchen to give myself something to look forward to at 4am. Gone were my breakfasts of fruit and eggs, replaced instead by 2 strong cups of Earl Grey and half a packet of biscuits. Salads are cute but pizza is oh-so gratifying.
A few weeks ago I wore my jeans and they felt a big snug. Hmm, I wonder if they shrunk in the wash? The next day my toddler came traipsing in to the bathroom as I was showering (Sidebar: Why does he choose to come in and poop in his diaper at this very moment? When the shower is hot and the bathroom is steamy, amplifying the horrendous odour? I’ve tried switching the time of day I shower, hoping to evade this phenomenon, but it’s like his bowels just know when to go.) Anyway, yes, my son came in and as I was toweling off he put both his tiny hands on my belly and asked if I had another baby brother still coming out. It was then I took a good look in the mirror and saw, with horror, that I did indeed look 5 months pregnant. When had this happened? I HAVE to go to the gym!
So I went, once.
I’ve been busy, ok?! And it made me really hungry.
Tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow. But tomorrow I will pick up my son from pre-school and try to walk right by Eric Kayser, refusing to allow the scent of freshly baked Pain au Chocolat to lure me in. A minute later, while I’m line to pay for the pastry, I’ll try envisioning the cellulite forming on my thighs; it won’t serve to dissuade me. “Today it’s ok. Just today,” I tell myself.
The world’s most pathological liar.