It's embarrassing. I have been trying to hide it. Even from my husband. I change in the closet when I decide to wear them. I put on my long tops and then pull on the jeans just so he can't see them. But then the other day he had decided to help out and fold the laundry. And before I could protest or grab them all out of the pile...there they were. All lined up on the couch. My dirty little spandex-clad secret.
Then came the final push over the edge.
My husband and I went out with friends the other night. We had not seen the couple in over a year. I got all decked out in my cutest maternity jeans and long hip hugging top and hoped that no one would notice the extra twenty pounds I was still carrying around with me like a security blanket.
I managed to dodge the inevitable "oh those are cute jeans" comment by refocusing the conversation on the wine list. But then there it was. Someone had pulled out the camera. That horrible contraption that I have been trying to avoid so diligently over the past year. And with a snap, That menace to all insecure, weight-conscious women everywhere captured it. The final straw.
It's bad enough my mother-in-law insisted that we ALL be in the Christmas picture this year, despite my fruitless attempts at protesting and suggesting alternate options. At least I had a bit of control over that with my Photoshop skills and all. But now, there it was. A rouge, random, untouched-up picture of my big fat ass in my maternity jeans, living vivaciously in their iPhoto for all the world to see.
Urgh.
Seriously. I actually don't know who is going to see that picture. Maybe no one. But as I sat there rolling through the pictures and secretly deleting what I could of the beached whale photos, it struck me. I've had it. I can't do this anymore. I want out of the maternity jeans!
I kept telling myself that I wouldn't buy any other jeans. That I would just loose the weight and pop back into my old jeans. But it hasn't happened. It's been a struggle. And it's frustrating to watch my friends pop out twins and second kids only to look better and skinnier only a few months later.
And quite frankly, I feel like I have been lazy. Or just not committed to all the hard work it takes to loose the weight on top of taking care of my son. I have tried a trainer, but couldn't find the time to be in the gym 5 days a week like she insisted and made me feel like a loser every time I saw her and had to answer the question: "how many times did you work out this week?". I am exhausted from running after my son all day, so by the time my husband comes home, the last thing on my mind is working out. What I really want is a half a bottle of wine and some comfort food.
But so here I am. And I want out.
I decided I would break my rule and go buy a pair of jeans. Just so I could get out of the maternity jeans and into something that I wouldn't be embarrassed about if my shirt rode up when I bent over or if my husband wanted to pull the laundry out of the dryer. So, I figure I would go on the cheap and head over to Target. I have seen a few friends in Target jeans and they aren't half bad.
Standing in the dressing room, there I was, face to face with the reality of what size "real" jeans I now wear. 13! Are you f**king kidding me? 13. I tried them all. All the brands they carried. 13 could not be right. My maternity jeans are a 9! But try as I would 13 was my number. Tattoo it on my forehead. I am a size 13. Holy crap. I guess the maternity jean makers don't want to destroy what's left of the fragile pregnant woman's ego and give them a last ditch fantasy with those damn size 9's.
So there it is. I don't know what is worse, my size 9 maternity jeans or my new shiny size 13 "real" jeans. At least the Mossimo brand at Target goes by even numbers so they are only a 12. Ha!
My new goal? Get out of these damn size 13's.
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