April 5, 2011

I'm an animal.

I have recently come to the conclusion that my scale is broken.  For some reason, it's accurate for my husband but always weighing in a bit 'heavy' for me.  I have the worst luck with scales.

I am, however-and oddly enough, having better luck with my jeans.  I am officially wearing pre-pregnancy skinny jeans.  Now, I use the term 'skinny' loosely. By 'skinny' I mean my belt loops are begging for mercy as I use them as leverage to get my jeans over my butt.  And my stomach is living dangerously over my waist line- but I will not feel anything but pride that these puppies button and I can actually bend without sucking in or busting a seam.

My zipper is starting to act a bit lethargic.  I gave it a break yesterday and wore yoga pants.

And screw you Joan Rivers.  Just because it zips does in fact mean it fits.  Maybe not well- but these jeans fit for all intents and purposes and I won't let you or your fake face take that away from me.

And, by the way- I am an animal.  Hear that, world.  I am on my fourth week of my 6 day a week exercise routine and damn it, I'm kicking ass and taking names.  I'm doing the Insanity dvd's and they are... insane.  I've never worked so hard and so fast in my life.  This week I notice frequently how much tighter I feel both physically and athletically.  I'm doing stretches I was able to do after a year of hot yoga.  I'm pouring sweat and making it through without needing to hit the pause button as a survival mechanism.  These are notable developments in my journey of becoming a hot mama and they deserve their moment.

So, after 3 and a half weeks of balls to the wall exercise and a [relatively] strict diet regime, why doest my eyes deceive me on my scale?  I stand there every Thursday morning, naked as the day is long, waiting for those numbers on that scale to reflect my dedication and my non-full-of-shitness about losing weight healthily and they fail me.  Why so cruel?

Before I get into the possible explanations, I have to ask myself if I care.  Do I care what the numbers are if I feel good and am starting to wear my pre-pregnancy jeans?  I don't.  I mean, truth is I'd like to see those numbers go down about ummm fifteen units, but I'm taking the positive where I can get it.  Plus, my husband thinks I'm hot, so whatever.

I'll be happy with these signs of success.  My pre-pregnancy jeans are a fantastic step.  The jowls are down to an all time low and my collar bones are out of hiding.  I'm going to take these new developments as signs that pregnancy didn't cause my genes to stray after all.

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