Thursday, September 17, 2015

fat bottomed girls

Needless to say, this past year has been one of the most physically, mentally and emotionally challenging years of my life. Despite conquering a triplet pregnancy, delivery/recovery, and the daily demands of four children, I am still haunted by one nagging postpartum demon: my weight. 

Now, I know I recently birthed a litter of babies. This is not some desperate attempt at a public plea for attention so people tell me how great I look for "just having triplets" because in all honestly, this is the biggest I have ever been. Despite my inconsistent efforts, the scale hasn't budged and the residual weight from two pregnancies has sent my body straight to the gutter.

For starters, my ass and thighs look like they belong in a rap video. My once perky boobs now look like sand-filled Kroger bags that not even Victoria's Secret can save. Most days I don't know if I should wear a bra or tuck my tits into my pants. Continuing further south, the sagging skin on my abdomen looks like it was clawed by a cat, but in all honestly, I don't mind my stretch marks. They tell a story that not many can tell. They are my battle wounds, and I wear them with pride. 

In lieu of several unavoidable postpartum bodily changes, the root of my problem lies within how I perceive myself. It's not so much about wanting to fit into my high school jeans again, but rather, achieving a realistic weight and level of fitness that allows me to feel comfortable in my own skin again. I'm in a physical funk that not even mono and/or a stomach parasite can snap me out of.

The sad part is, I know what I need to do and how I need to do it. However, I'm someone who needs to be held accountable in a situation as such. Asking me to turn down a slice of pizza is like asking a dog to not lick himself. I have zero self-control and even less willpower. Even so, I didn't want to resort to a fad diet that guarantees rapid weight loss in a short amount of time. I wanted to do things the good old-fashioned way: clean-eating and exercise.

I've officially retired my sweat-inducing shapewear and have committed myself to a six-week clean-eating challenge. It's horribly strict and painfully limited, but it's exactly what I need. 

Attempting weight loss is frustrating, gradual, and there is no easy way around it. Pumping may be the fucking worst, but pregnancy weight is a fucking whore. 

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