Jelly Belly

I have never been a slim girl. I take that back. Not since the age of ten have I been a slim girl. I have always been what some may call thick, Phat, pleasantly plump or my favorite, chunky. I have always had a bit of junk in my trunk, a honky tonk badonk-a-donk and a bit of a jelly belly. If you are starting to get queasy in reaction to all of the ridiculous nick names for a woman who is average in size, I concur completely.

To say that I do not wish to be thinner would make me Un-American, an anomaly in the masses of women that sign up for gym memberships, buy diet pills, pay for liposuction, tummy tucks and stomach staples. I have been on the inside of a changing room, that I would swear was the ninth gate of hell, where nothing fit except for the one shirt you thought would be “huge” on you. I have looked at a pair of jeans and thought those are too big and the legs are too short only to realize they fit me perfectly. Nice.

I would miss my curves. I love my hips and my breasts. I even love my thighs when no one is looking. Or maybe it’s when I am not looking at anyone else. If I were to get my wishes, made out of ridiculous malcontent, I would probably be devastated. What I want is to be healthy, fit and toned. I don’t think that is too much to ask.

So every day, for about two weeks, I schlep out my work out gear, videos and a baby gate and sweat. I do squats, push-ups, crunches and aerobics. My children stand at the door and knock and I tell them to get lost. I believe my exact words were, “If you get in my way or touch me while I am working out you’re going to be in big trouble. I never have the time to do this so I am going to make the time and you are going to go find something to do without me.”

Don’t worry. After reading this parenting book, you will all be as well versed in child development as I am.

I make healthy choices one meal at a time. I even sabotage my own weak will power by quickly rinsing the brownie batter down the sink so I don’t lick the bowl clean like a crazy chocolate deprived woman. I have never been deprived. I try to stick with the veggie tray at most of the parties, sans the dip. I even pay attention to my serving sizes.

For me, this is the hard part. I work out, sweat, put away my gear, take a shower and then realize that it didn’t work. I still have freakin’ stretch marks! What the hell did I do all of that for. I get confused every time I work out and forget that healthy, fit and the (someday attained) tonality I long for looks nothing like the American ideal of beauty. I have to reset my expectations and find joy in my accomplishments two pounds at a time.

Again, I guess I will just have to be Un-American. Bummer. I kind of like it here.