If I would exercise just a tiny portion of the time I spent each day whining and moaning about how fat I was, I would be back in pre-baby shape in just a few months. But apparently I find it much more enjoyable to just sit around, pinch my back fat, and try to stetch my clothing to fit my muffin tops. Why can't the fact that my face looks like a Cabbage Patch Kid's be enough motivation for me? I just don't get it!
I would not trade my sweet baby-child for anything. He's the last thing I think of each night and the first thing in the mornings. But I would love to get rid of the extra, weird shaped blubber encasing my waist, hips, and thighs; the red, prickly bumps all over my legs; and my new, snazzy, black moustache. (It's really not hair but a skin condition called melasma. I wish it were hair, though. Then I could wax it up everynight and twist it laughingly after successfully pulling off an evil plot against mankind.)
I want me back. I've lost me. So this blog is my love letter to my old self. The old confident self who realized she didn't need to be a supermodel or stick thin to feel like good.
