I have kinda become frumpy mom. My kid always looks fantastic, while I look, well, barely acceptable.
At various times in my life, I have chosen frumpiness on purpose…wearing too big clothing, not paying attention to my shoes. To hide, mostly, for myriad reasons. But I always had the sexy librarian option.
I’m 6′ tall and have good bone structure, so I could, at any time, make a transformation of sorts. It was like being a superhero.
Nobody knew what I was hiding under all those layers, then BAM.
You know, slow motion begins as I let down my hair and toss it side to side.
Boom Chica Boom Chica…
Sexy me emerges from the layers of clothing with some f*ckme red lipstick and an attitude. Everyone noticed me when I walked into a room. Super powers I tell you.
Now I am carrying around the 20 extra pounds I never shed after pregnancy, like a lump. You know what, that’s a lie. I lost most of it at one point last year after actually exercising and eating well. Amazing how uncomplicated it actually is: eat less, and move your ass. Hello? But I have food addiction issues. And with TTC comes cake.
The cake and the cinnamon buns and the cheesy quesadillas, oh and the 10pm bowl of cereal, pads my nice sharp bone structure and gives me a perky little muffin top. I have always had a bootie, so that is just bigger. I also have some boobs, which I have NEVER had in my life. That was fun for a while. Now I’m over it.
So here I am, a little rounder. Fine. But I’m not even working what I have. I’m not a voluptuous sexy chick now. You can be sexy with a muffin top, at least other people can, just don’t be trying to squeeze into those low rise jeans, please. The truth is I’m self conscious. I see pre-baby pictures of myself (when I still felt ugly and fat, but whatev.) and I can barely recognize myself. I look like a friggin supermodel.
I actually was a model for a bit when I was 16. I went to New York with F*ord models and everything.
So what the fuck people? Why am I never happy with how I look, even when I’m hot?
Unfortunately for me I still believe sometimes that I can do the librarian thing, but here’s what happens instead:
I shake out my no-style-to-speak-of-hair that maybe I washed yesterday or the day before, I put on some lipstick only to realize I have not bleached my moustache in 2 months (my son pointed to it the other day and said “mouth hair!” all proud, like he made a terrific discovery), my armpits are shaved but my legs are not, I don’t fit into any of my cool clothes anymore, and my toenail polish is all chippy. I might even look like a crack whore.