That Was Then... This Is Now... When Is Tomorrow?

Around Christmas time, Stupid Fat Hobbit put this picture from 2007 on his blog. It is of Hobbit and his wife and Carl and I at a Christmas party (this was the first time I met Hobbit and I got drunk off of the wine that Marva's husband was buying and we instantly became friends.) You can see a larger version of this photog over at his blog... but I am good with keeping it small here.

Awful I know. Look at my hair! You know what I did? I got pregnant and cut my long hair off, which is usual for me when my hormones are nuts. I will literally call up any hairdresser in the phone book and get an appointment for that day and have them cut off my hair... and the next day I cry and start that long process of growing it back again.

Also, look at my body! I had just had a baby 7 months prior and I literally cringe when I think back to that dark dark time. With my other babies I was able to drop the weight rather quickly-as in, I would walk out of the hospital in my regular jeans... but little Mary did a number on me and I couldn't get rid of the weight.

So when Hobbit posted this pic I wanted to crawl back into bed, but then I thought "Who the hell reads Hobbit besides me? No one will see this."

Until the other day when I received an email from someone saying "Hi, I just was on Stupid Fat Hobbit's blog and holy crap you look different!" (some people are just so cruel) and then I went to the refrigerator and proceeded to get disgustingly drunk and make prank phone calls to my Cousin Steve asking if "Hugh Jass" lived there or if "Eura Snotball" was home.

So I decided to go back to my archives and find the post that I had written about that night and post it with this photo so you would know all of the effort that went into "trying" to look like a human being.

Mistress June On Duty!
Last weekend my husband and I went to a Christmas party. I am not proud, and I fully admit that since the birth of Mary Claire I have basically sat around eating and drinking until I have turned into a chubby mommy. Sometimes chubby looks good on people, on me, well it looks just plain fat.

Since this party was a "semi-formal" event, I had to find a dress that actually fit me. I refused to buy a new dress in the size that I am in now for the same reason that I refuse to buy any new pants. I do not plan on being this size forever and I do believe that one day I will wake up and the sense will be knocked back into me and I will set down the cookies and cakes (don't ask me to set down the beer though-that will never happen my friends.) and get back on the road to looking smokin' hot and all.

Today... not so smokin' hot. Not even a little luke warm hot. Today I look like a chubby woman wearing pants a size too small. I fully admit that. If you don't like it, look away.

Anyway, as I was rummaging through my closet I found a simple black dress in a size 8. I considered for a moment slathering my body up with baby oil before attempting to put it on, but I didn't want it to stain.

Instead I headed to the store to buy me a pair of "Spanks." Do you know how much those suckers are? Too much... so I bought a pair of the Hanes knock offs. I may be fat, but I am still money conscious.

That night after my shower and my hair drama, it was time to get dressed. I knew it was time to get dressed because my husband was fully dressed and hovering around me asking me things like "Are you getting close to done?" or "Can you give me a rough estimate as to when you think you may possibly be ready." When he starts to hover, my mood will quickly go from a pleasant one to a bad one. They based the character on the Exorcist movie on my bad moods. So now I was fat, had bad hair, and in a bad mood. Never attempt to put make up on when you are in a bad mood... I think I may have ended up looking a little like Cruella De Vil.

Sooo, it was now time to strap some lycra to my body and squeeze my size 10 hips into a size 8 dress... and my size GAZILLION nursing boobs into a size 8 dress. Success seemed impossible.

When I pulled the Hanes lycra out of the envelope, I thought it was a joke. They looked like they would fit my 4 year old and not me. How in the world was I supposed to put these things on? There I was, naked, sweating, and huffing and puffing as I pulled and tugged the lycra up my body. I turned to look in the mirror and saw that the lycra was forcing all of the fat from my thighs and butt up... I looked like Santa Clause trying to fit down a chimney. As most of you know, putting pantyhose on is not easy... escalate that torture by 1000 and you will get an idea as to what it is like to get this lycra contraption on.

As I was mid-way through my fat pulling, lycra tugging ordeal, I look up to see my husband watching me. The look on his face was one of horror and defeat. I think he may have been fooling himself about my size as well. All of those fantasies where I look like the 18 year old girl with the size 4 hips and the amazing ta-tas were shattered all because he could not leave me the hell alone when I am getting dressed. I don't feel bad though, and he will eventually stop staring into space and shuttering from time to time... I hope.

Eventually I did it. I was lycra'd up from mid thigh to breast and I was SKINNY! Not as skinny as if I would actually get my rear in gear and work a little, but skinny enough to get that size 8 dress on. Sure, my boobs were spilling out over the top, but they had to-they had no where to go! My thighs were actually so skinny that they did not rub against each other when I walked! My tummy was flat and my butt was small. I had won the victory over the fat! I had tricked it into being sucked back into my body for an evening.

When I took the Lycra off later that evening, it shot across the room and hit my husband square in the face. He woke up screaming that night... something about being eaten by a fat monster. I am not sure what that means, but with a little counseling he should be fine.

Now... here is a picture that was taken almost two weeks ago. It has only taken me 20 MONTHS to get back to normal. (Lord above isn't that man handsome. I just love when he wears blue... and look at his smile, just look at it! He has great hands too... so strong.) What was I talking about? Oh yeah... what women think of themselves.

But I am still not happy. Oh, don't look at me and say "June! Why are you not happy?" I am not happy because women in general are never happy with themselves. Why is this? Why do we torture ourselves? Why do we look in the mirror and think that we need to change? I bet that if I asked all of you that "if you could change one thing, what would it be?" Everyone would have an answer ranging from "I hate my butt" to "My hair is too limp." to "Have you seen my boobs? Well neither have I!"

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And what about when we are feeling good about ourselves and then we see another woman and instantly feel insecure because she is skinnier or has the exact color hair that we wish we could have or she has flawless skin and long eyelashes? Why do we torture ourselves? WHY?

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When I was in college, my roommate used to look at herself in the mirror every morning as say "I'm tall, I'm thin, and I lose pounds daily for no apparent reason." I need to call her up and see how that is working for her.

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For today, lets all love ourselves. Let's all look in the mirror and say "Hell yeah I look good!" Because we do... WE REALLY DO!

*Update* For all of you saying "Whatever!" You have to remember that I had more lycra on my body than a cirque du soleil performer in a Celine Dion freak show for that Christmas party. When I took it off it was quite literally like a explosion of cellulite. Not pretty... not pretty at all. But this also proves my point that we are never happy with ourselves and we are, somedays, our own worst enemies.