Vanity kills

I know it does.  I haven't had a healthy relationship with vanity, but I did pretty much give her whatever she wanted.  Since I was twelve years old, I have been lying on my side on the floor doing leg lifts while watching TV, talking on the phone, having a family meeting about the next vacation or why no one is talking to each other, whatever.  I have done sit ups my entire life and have slathered my face with pimple creams and potions every single night, even at the end of baccanalian celebration of the arrival of Friday or Thursday or hell, Monday.  I have done squats at my desk, squeezed my glutes while riding on the subway, and hauled six bags of groceries ten blocks rather than pull them in a wagon or cart.  What I am saying is that, if there was something I could do to control the way I looked, I was doing it and a lot of it.


Even after having Lily, when a whopping 25 pounds remained committed to my frame, I would get up at 5:30 am before Didier or the wee one roused and sneak out for 45 minutes to one hour in the gym.  I felt great even though I was bone tired and rewarded myself with an aloe and pete moss smoothie or something like that, I cannot remember.  You get the picture.  I took care of myself . There was a tiny bit of punishment involved, but the results were worth it.  Detoxes and cleanses two to three times per year.  Walking all over the city pushing the stroller rather than taking the subway or shut-your-mouth, a cab!  I ate sushi and seaweed, lots of salads, lean meat.  I believed I looked better naked than with clothes on.  Now who even thinks that who is not vying for a position in a magazine with a staple going through her goodies or some other zone?!  Really.


Well, not me anymore.  I am really tired.  And it is too damned hot!  After Virginie and my 55 pound weight gain, I had little time to even think of taking care of me, let alone getting into fighting shape.  We moved pretty quickly from the apartment to my parents' house where my main source of exercise was walking across the spacious foyer to a comfortable couch to nurse the baby.  I might get in some real lifting picking up Lily who at that time weighed in at a whopping 25 pounds.  When we got to Barbados, the sheer intensity of the heat and humidity stunned me into my best freeze tag position and I am just now beginning to snap out of it. 


Don't get me wrong.  I know it could be worse.  My general shape is still there.  But I am softer, as I think is kinder to say, in some areas than I'd previously been.  My darling husband said something along the lines of, "You might, perhaps, have a coating or something and not even know it."  Hmmmm.  So, what should I take from that?  It's not just about the cellulite or the jiggly tummy when I brush my teeth, I am surprisingly over those.  It's the mommyness of my whole look right now.  I don't wear mom jeans bc it is too damned hot here but I have started to see a look on my face that looks a lot like my mother circa 1979.  Cute inside of there but unable to set that lady free. 


Ponytail or bun.  T-shirt with shorts.  Flip flops.  No jewelry (other than the wedding ring as a buffer to the freaks who hit on everyone with boobs and to prevent losing my earlobe to a hard tug by Virginie).  Soft, mushy spots where, as they say, the shit was once tight!  There are no leglifts here.  No sit ups except for the just  finished watching a makeover show I can do this reps followed by weeks of Twix cookie bars in bed and the leftover chicken hotdog chunks from Virginie's snack tray.  Sigh.


I promised myself I would try a little harder.  Get on the elliptical more.  Stop using it as a playground for the girls or a clothing rack.  Snack less.  But mostly I just visualize.  And then go to sleep.  I can't do it all.  Lily and Virginie definitely think I am pretty.  That's what I am going for right now.  So I am totally hot in an alternate universe kind of way.


(c) Copyright 2010.  City Mom in the Jungle.