I am in need of gigantic pants.
The last time I lost a lot of weight, I donated my gigantic pants to Goodwill, triumphantly. “Never again will I need such gigantic pants!” I decreed, high on metabolism and the heady glee that accompanies being a size 8. “I am invincible, and obviously things will never change again!”
But what I had forgotten is that, for some reason, something very weird happens to me after I have a baby, and my metabolism ramps up to that of a teenage boy. Weight flies off me, as if I sat up from the delivery bed and left behind a pool of congealed fat. I am the only person I know who comes back to work after having a baby weighing less than I did when I got pregnant in the first place.
And it lulled me into a sense of false security both times. With Rosie, in particular, not only did I not have to do anything, I could eat literally anything and I just kept losing. It was a miracle! A miracle that would never stop happening! I was the patron saint of undeserved weight loss!
But oh, it always catches up to me eventually. And that time is now.
So now I’m left with only two options: get pregnant again, or actually attempt to diet. Not just say I’m dieting while simultaneously smashing a colossal cupcake in my gaping maw, but actually, seriously doing it.
And honestly, getting pregnant sounds like a better option.
But as I’ve previously mentioned, my uterus has shuttered its doors, so that’s just not in the cards for me. Which only leaves the actually dieting plan, a gross and rumbly path down Salad Lane and Sweaty Elliptical Hellscape.
Still, I will give in and buy some more gigantic pants, knowing full well that I will gleefully discard them as soon as I’m able. I need something to wear while I hoe this craptastic road, and sadly, sweatpants are expressly banned in my work’s dress code.