I was all set to write a nice, pleasing post about our new place (short version: I LOVE IT OMG) but was derailed, as always, by my reflection. My belly, specifically. Belly: what did I ever do to you? I feed you. I bathe you. I sneak you treats every once in a while. So why all the hate? Why do you protrude, gelatinously, from my midsection, rather than laying flat like you used to? Remember how fond we were of each other when you were small? What happened to that, huh?
I know what happened. First, I stopped being 19. Funny thing: just because you had the metabolism of a hyperactive finch in high school does not mean that you can go through your life eating brownies and not exercising, no matter how many times you had to argue with people about whether or not you were anorexic. (Which, so not. I ate then exactly the same way I eat now, only in high school? I weighed 107 pounds. I could almost fit two of me in my skin right now. So. Creepy.)Â And then, secondly, I gave birth to my lovely son. And ate brownies. And did not exercise. Except that I did! I do, I mean. Exercise. I run after a toddler all day, and I lift things, and I walk everywhere. (Ponderously, sure. But it counts.)
The hot weather is bringing my reflection-hatred to a head (as it were), since I find myself leaving the house in things like skirts and tank tops. Don’t get me started on the tank tops, either – I used to be able to wear one without looking like a low-rent porn star, and now? Let’s just agree never to speak of it. (Except I totally will.)
On the other hand, we have a full-length mirror in our home for the first time in two years, and that’s pretty keen. Assuming what’s being reflected isn’t me.