It’s mildly hilarious to me how many of my friends are so confused about my postpartum weight loss (which is truly nothing spectacular); it’s as if nobody remembers how much work babies are. And then of course, baby + baby + 18-month-old + post-pregnancy night sweats + no dairy = -35 pounds naturally. ( + Arbor = resting heart rate of 4,000 beats per minute.)
It’s those months after weaning, though, for me, that are so flipping hard–mainly because I so easily grow accustomed to a calorie intake of biblical proportions required to support multiple human lives. And well, once I’m done breastfeeding, dem pounds just creep straight back on and they are dang near impossible to shake.
And y’all I love food, like, so much.
But I want to be strong and I want to run fast, so if I need to limit my bread consumption to half a giant loaf per day, then so be it.
The running is…well…I’m doing my best. So far I’ve set a lofty goal for myself of not dying after a two-mile half-jog, half-walk. I’m impatient and frustrated with my lack of progress but I forget that I just got going again last week.
Not gonna lie: 39 is barreling toward me at light speed and all the sudden I’m noticing things that I always said would never bother me: gray hairs, wrinkles around my eyes, thin lips, and sagging…everything. Getting older is harder than I thought it was gonna be. I don’t love it.
How do some women age so gracefully? How tho? How do some women have time to hit the gym and work full-time and where do they find the willpower to wake up at 5 am and go for a run and not eat chocolate chips for lunch?
I have so many questions.
Don’t you like sleep? Is it hard to eat salad more than once a week? At what point in your life did you realize you had the metabolism of a hyperactive squirrel? Do you have to be so tiny around me? Can you wrap your fingers around your own wrist?
(I can’t, and it’s bothered me ever since the 4th grade when my friends and I had a “how skinny are you?” throw down on the back of the school bus. It was the first time in my life I felt “fat”, though no one ever said a much.)
And while it’s true that I possess the world’s shortest, stubbiest fingers that don’t easily lend themselves to wrist-wrapping anyway, I admit to some long-held insecurities about my weight–and, now, about my gray hair and wrinkles.
I do sometimes lose sight of what’s important (read: not my waist size) but I try to remember that I was indeed designed just-so by God and built exactly to His perfect specifications both inside and out. My stubby man hands? Perfect for finger painting. My line-backer-esque shoulders have carried all the children. My wrinkles display how much I’ve laughed and cried and lived, and fortunately, gray is all up in my color wheel.
I will master that two-mile run before spring is over with. I will. And I’ll be rocking the world’s happiest pair of crows’ feet when I do.