I am 5 feet 6 inches, and weigh as much as a newborn giraffe.* I wasn’t always this way. There was my high school phase (when eating Taco Bell every day after school was my fourth meal), and my college phase (when eating Taco Bell every night at 2am, as God intended, was my fifth or sixth meal). But somehow after I popped out a baby, I also popped my collarbone out of hiding. This may have been because it was really hard to eat ramen while holding a (con.stant.ly.) screaming kid, or because I was awake 24 hours a day and developed the metabolism of a cokehead on a trampoline.
My weight has always been something I ignored unless directly annoyed by it, like the Bath & Body Works employees who try to throw a shopping bag as big as a recliner at you the minute you cross the threshold. (Yes, thank you, my intention was definitely to buy enough lotion to stock my ‘I forgot it was your birthday, hope you enjoy smelling like fake pumpkin’ stash until 2025.) Some of the annoyances turned out to be thrilling discoveries, like that one time my friend Marie freaked out over my 6-pack. That’s right, bitches, it turns out that when the light hits my stomach jusssssst right, my belly fat is aligned in the EXACT SHAPE OF ABDOMINAL MUSCLES.
Due to the double miracle of my fatpack and post-baby weight drop (come on, God owed me after braces, mullets, glasses, allergies, cellulite, and a solid 5 years of strangers mistaking me for a boy**), I have never exercised. Yes, I get winded doing laundry, walking uphill (read: anywhere but the hallways of Nordstrom), and stirring a batch of brownie batter too vigorously, but making my heart race ON PURPOSE? I will save that for my panic attacks, thankyouverymuch.
And then one day I was sitting on the couch with my sister, and she pushed her hand into my belly to get me away from her. What happened next was like a reverse-Alien: her hand disappeared into my stomach, up to her wrist. “What the hell?! Ohmigod are you seriously this squishy? You need to HANDLE that.” (If you guessed that I set my new Kim Kardashian Lumee phone case to ultra-bright and flashed it onto my fatpack to try to reverse the damage, you would be correct.)
Fast forward a few weeks, and I am at Dancers R Us for an exercise class with Marie, who needed volunteers for a class she was teaching . Having never been in a room full of mirrors, I went into an instant selfie-coma. The place was perfect for figuring out what sexual position you look least disgusting in (hint: it’s the one in a swimming pool, where everyone looks skinnier and weighs what they would on the moon). I was actually quite excited to see my GapFit workout pants… work out. Until that point, they had only worked out the shortest distance between my couch and the open bottle of Chardonnay.
Because I’m a moron who has no concept of how much 2-pound weights really weigh, I threw myself into the warm ups. Then I remembered that I need my 10-year old to open our heavy front door for me every day, and that 2 lbs + 2 lbs = 4 pounds, which is 3 pounds more than I can curl.
Every time Marie chirped “keep that leg in the air,” I wanted to throw my SPRI ball at her – except it was constantly rolling across the sex room because my leg wasn’t strong enough to hang onto it. FYI, if we are having a conversation and it looks like I am staring at your vagina? I am actually studying your upper thighs for evidence that you can hold this ball between your legs while doing squats (and maybe evaluating for dimples, but I’m just jealous because I burst out of my ‘looks like a boy’ phase with DDs and cellulite and I’ve never recovered from that gender earthquake.)
I made it through most of the class (minus planks – those can go back to hell with nonfat cheese) only by reciting the Taco Bell menu like a meditation chant. Turns out I was able to marinate a 10-pound baby inside my body, but on the outside, I can’t lift anything heavier than a tequila shooter. Perhaps my sister should have reverse-Aliened me sooner.
*I know you Googled it. I had to.
© Calling All Cool Moms 2016