Written by Rebecca
Forget cups. Post pregnancy your cups shrink and your muffin top runneth over. Like millions of other gals on this planet, I had a baby, my second one, we called him Speed, or Sam, (depending on which day you catch me), and I refer to him as #2, because having two kids totally blew my mind and I have dubbed them in order of their birth because that is the quickest way to remember them, without calling them the dog’s name, cat’s name, my husbands or anyone else… A massive brain fart that happens when you’ve added to your brood and your brain capacity can no longer cope with adding one name to your name directory. But unlike millions of other gals, I griped about being knocked up far louder and longer than anyone cared for, but, if I cared about that fact, I wouldn’t be me.
When Speed was born, he wasn’t 68 pounds. He was only about 7. Where on earth is the other 61?? Oh yeah. ALL OVER MY FAT ARSE. And today, 6 months later, it’s still hanging from the bones of my upper arms (my wings) and spilling/running over the top of my jeans (muffin top). I’m officially (unofficially) re-naming this blog: My Muffin Top, Runneth Over.
I’m inspired to write this particular post, because somehow, without diet or exercise and consuming an unusually large amount of clearance priced Christmas Pretzel M&M’s, I managed to squeeze my thunder thighs and buns with ham and extra mayo into a pair of my pre-pregnancy pants, my regular size 8. (It’s not pretty though, and I can NEVER wash them, for fear of shrinking)
I had to lay down on the bed, take a deep breath in to zip up my jeans, then breathe in, harder, again, rock myself back and forward to get up off the bed and then hold out each side of my jeans to “tuck in” my muffin top. Mr. Price is amused, chuckles with me at my ridiculous attempts to stretch a pair of jeans into “publicly wearable format”, but then totally loses his composure when I begin my “Jeans shrunk in the wash and the dryer, lunge-squat-splits-on-the-floor dance”. I’ve never been sexier.
None of my embarrasing-for-most-folks behavior, would deter the unstoppable Mr. Price or any male for that fact (Not that I’m on the market), for still wanting to “get in my pants”, because, Mr. Price, like every other male, is just thrilled every time they have sex, that they are actually getting to have sex. That’s how I think about men. That’s the box I put them in. Soooooo, I’m never stressed about showboating my “wobbly bits” in front of my Blue-er eyed half. But back to my muffin top…
Courtesy some user named "Zennabug" on Photobucket. I couldn't be bothered to re-create this genius myself.
At this point, if you’re wondering “where I’m going with this?“, so am I. “Stronger” just came on by Kelly Clarkson and I’m just now back to my seat after dancing too vivaciously and singing far too loudly in my office so people would accidentally on purpose hear what I think is my awesome singing voice. Ahem… Muffin top.
It’s ironic that while pregnant, my belly button sees it’s first sunlight, then, buries itself so far back into my excess fat (that I’m saving for a mini egg-less day), that I get at least two knuckles deep when sticking my finger in, to clean the ancient cavern in the shower. My belly button retreated faster than a chicken on biscuit day (inside joke) while post pregnancy, it’s a shame my muffin top won’t do the same.
My muffin top is a cruel reminder of the pointless $29.95 that is automatically debited from my account each month and goes directly to a gym that is so far away and almost impossible to find clean gym clothes to wear to go to and it’s so cold outside I don’t want to get sweaty and then cold, because then that’s a cold stanky sweat and it’s grosser, because that kind of cold stink sticks to your skin. I’ve now re-named my gym pants to my “watching repeat episodes of family guy on the couch” pants. Or my “season 4 marathon of 30 rock on Netflix, baked cheeto full length black leg napkins”.
Muffin top, rolls, cottage cheese, why do all these seemingly horrible references to to severely un-toned areas of your body have to remind me of DELICIOUS FOODS?? CRUEL CRUEL WORLD.
Exhibit called #2 "Adorable Fat Rolls" Cute for baby, not for mama.
At least love handles remind me of what you do when your driver takes a 90 degree turn to the right at mach 5 speeds,grabbing the “oh shit” handles. Except with the love handles, it’s what you grab when well, if you’ve got something to grab on to, because, well, otherwise, it’s just going to flap in the wind while you’re doin’ it. If I had any more “love handles” I’d be able to accommodate a bus full of people on an unexpected sudden suicidal sharp right turn by the driver.
So, “how am I going to wrap up this blog post?” Just like this. I’ve got muffin top, and just like when I was pregnant, what am I going to do about it? Absolutely nothing. Except, gripe. Maybe I might get the slight inclination to exercise or go to the gym when it’s a tad warmer out, or maybe hell will freeze over, but I’m more likely to just complain about it to everyone, forget about it, and go on.
I’m starting to like my muffin top, it’s kind of an affectionate term to me now, it reminds me of a delicious carbo loaded food I love, which is mostly likely, exactly how I got it in the first place. SO, muffin top, welcome aboard, meet love handles, fat rolls and cottage cheese, may you all enjoy this body together because when I think of you and how you look, awkwardly displaced about my body, I think of delicious foods.
DELICIOUS foods and NOMS.
Now, where are those mini-eggs?