Again with the Beer Baby . . .

I’m fat.

I get it.

It happened again.  We were at a cocktail party Friday night when someone asked me, “so which number is this for you?” and glanced down at my abs-of-steel region.

Ugh. 

“We have three, and we’re done,” I replied.  

“Not pregnant.  Just fat,” I added, which prompted her to say, “oh, you’re not fat!”

Well then why’d you just insinuate that I was pregnant?  Nobody sees Kate Moss at a cocktail party, (holding a wine glass, by the way,) and comments on her pregnancy.  Poor Hubby hates when this happens, mostly because he has to clean up the emotional mess that accompanies my death spiral of self-esteem. 

I get it.  I am fluffy.  Generally, I’m okay with it.  

An acquaintance (who happens to by gay, so I totally trust him,) told me I just need to own my plus-sizeness.  He’s right.  No one is fooled by what I wear if I try to hide my plumpness.  So I try to dress appropriately; I try to look nice and wear clothes that fit.  I don’t look frumpy (except when I’m wearing my bus-stop sweatpants and my puffy coat.  On a side note, puffy coats are NOT flattering, especially on big girls.  But damn if that coat is not warm.)  Since I carry a lot of weight in the front, I can’t rock a tight dress – I need something with an empire waist, which is more flattering, but which apparently looks like I own stock in Motherhood Maternity.

I carry my weight in my front.  (And hips.  And cheeks, and upper arms, and boobs.  But NOT in the rear.  My badonkadonk is more like just a badonk.)  Just to clarify, again:

Me pregnant:

The back side is F-L-A-T.
The front?
Not so much.

Me, pregnant and bloated with a beer baby:

My point is that I am making efforts to be more healthy.  I’m doing Weight Watchers . . . AGAIN . . . and I go to the gym.  But it’s going to take some time. I am never going to be a size 10, and I am okay with that.  I am fluffy because I prefer beer and pizza to salad and a glass of ice water.  I do not have a thyroid problem nor do I have a genetic propensity for obesity.  My body has borne three children and endured various other emotional/hormonal events, and it has not bounced back.  I OWN it.   

But for the love o’ pete, it hurts my feelings when grown-ups insinuate that I am pregnant.  I struggle with it every day and I don’t blame anyone else but myself.  I try to be a kind person, a good friend, an understanding wife, a loving mother.  I wake up every day and try to be all these things, and I know, intellectually, that these qualities are what matter most.  So when you meet me at a party, let’s talk about religion and politics, but NOT my weight, because that, my friend, is a sensitive topic.