|It's different when it's a pillow.|
Eventually I suppose I got mentally used to the idea of larger jeans and I started wearing them. I'd gone up three more sizes by the time I was 20 and it was only after spending a semester in France that I finally saw those digits dropping.
Lots of people look back at college photos and mourn the loss of their thin, young body. I don't mourn what I lost; I was unhealthy and overweight and am 60 pounds lighter today than I was back then.
But this post isn't about weight loss. It's about weight gain. It's about the total Jedi mind tricks that I've had to do with myself over the past 17 weeks to go from attending Weight Watchers in January to gaining 10 pounds by May.
I know it's healthy to gain weight. There's a baby in there, after all. Mentally I know this. Physically though, I can't help being totally freaked out. Am I gaining weight too fast? In the right places? With the right food? I've had maternity clothes sitting in a bag in my closet for the past three months but have had a mental hurdle breaking into them. Like those jeans in 10th grade, taking the tags off my new clothes force me to admit that my body has changed and that there will be a new normal.
It's not even that my current jeans aren't fitting; they're alright but I feel uncomfortable in them. Last night I tried wearing a belly band with my jeans for the first time and it was weird and tight and hot and I felt like my ass was hanging out all night. Then I came home and found stretch marks on my legs and burst into tears.
It's likely those stretch marks have been there since my college days. But I felt so off last night. I don't look pregnant, I look chubby. And worse than how I look to other people is how I feel in my own skin, which truthfully crawls and makes me nauseous to think about. Chris tells me I look great and others do too and somehow it's just not what I see in the mirror.
This is harder than I thought it would be.