So this morning I woke up feeling like I had consumed a deep-fried small child during the night. I tried to convince myself that it was all psychological, that I hadn't magically gained a bunch of weight between the time I went to bed and the time I woke up. It's all in your mind, I told myself. And to prove the point, I did something really, REALLY stupid.
I tried on my skinny jeans.
I've heard that people who have had traumatic experiences sometimes repress them, because some memories are just too horrific for the human mind to accept. I have vague, disturbing recollections of The Incident in the Bedroom, which I'd rather not discuss, but I'm pretty sure I set a record for going through the stages of grief. First, denial, as I stuffed myself into what were once very comfortable jeans, determined to button them against all odds. Next, anger. I mean, what the hell?!? I just exercised 2 days in a row. Where's my immediate gratification??? I'm not so sure I bargained with God, as much as cursed Him and His Divine and Delicious fish frys. Then, of course, depression, as I scowled in the mirror, and contemplated whether other women my age (who have also never been pregnant) have stretch marks across their ass like me. I don't think I officially hit acceptance, but I did finally give up at one point, and threw on my sweat pants. I think that's as close to acceptance as I'm going to get today.
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