Embrace the MuffinTop

My tribal name shall be :  MuffinTop

Backing up, it was about a year ago that Stephen started coughing.  He coughed and it kept us all awake.  Coughed and coughed.  It was 3 weeks later that he finally went to the doctor and, in one month from today, he was diagnosed with terminal cancer.  So it was right at a year ago when I quit eating.  When I got ill just sitting in front of food, for the most part.  My heart rate was always in “go” mode.  I was also physically busy from day up to day down.  There were 3 people to care for after all.  And not much in the way of help. 

Fast forward to Christmas.  I had buried my husband and moved across town and had one cold after another for months and months.  I had lost 30 pounds and 2 pants sizes.  (Sidenote:  I don’t recommend this as a weight loss tool.  Consult your physician before beginning the “caretaker” starvation diet or any other diet and exercise program)  I hadn’t weighed this much little since my sophomore year of college which corresponds with when I discovered that I had a taste for beer.  Huh.  Anyway, I threw out 10 years worth of jeans, bras, shorts…everything was falling off my body.  I treated myself to all things fashionable (except baby doll tops, cause…yuk). 

Fast forward to opera gig.  For 3 weeks I ate at least one meal out, I re-met my long lost friend Miller Lite, I mainlined full fat, extra hot vanilla lattes with whip, and I consumed copious amounts of Cadbury mini-eggs and peanut butter M&M’s.  Really?  I shouldn’t be suprised that my hip new “skimmers” (which, on my short but hot legs look like capris) that have only been worn twice didn’t want to button this morning and when I did get them buttoned I couldn’t go out in public like that.  I have my dignity.  So I get on the scale.

Is this possible?  15 pounds in 4 weeks?  I know that I consumed junk and beer.  I also know that I was on my feet for 15 hours a day for many of those days and that I had a distinct lack of sleep.  Could it be because Amelia all but weaned?  Is my body hormonally letting go of my childbearing years?  Or is this part of the whole mourning process?  Am I returning, with a vengance, to my pre-crisis eating state?  And are nutty bars the enemy?  Or do I just need to get a membership to the Y?

These are all the questions that went through my head in the 2 minutes it took me to change from hip, new hottness to frumpy mommy in track shorts.  It makes me want to dye my hair back to its original mouse brown and wear my glasses all day.  At the risk of sounding too much like all the celebrity rags out there, I detest my MuffinTop.  And the MuffinTops of anyone too lame to admit defeat and put on something that fits regardless of what the size tag says.  That’s a real grown up thing to do.


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