I've never been a beanpole, and no one would ever accuse me of being anorexic, but I was pretty proud of the fact that I squeezed in to a size 8 designer wedding dress that fit off the rack, no alterations needed, thankyouverymuch. I tried for months to keep from gaining any weight, and to some degree I was pretty successful (although, let's not count the fact that I had to take my corset off during dinner because I couldn't sit down, let alone eat).
So imagine my shock and awe when, weighing in at a doctor's appointment, I discovered that I had gained 15 pounds since my June wedding. Fifteen. That's like half an Olsen twin.
Later that night, as I got ready for bed, I asked the hubbs if he had noticed a weight gain.
"You look beautiful," he replied, which of course, I interpreted as "get to the gym you fat, fat cow."
So to the gym I went, huffing and puffing along with the slender, blonde-ponytailed she-devils, terrified my arm flab would knock one of them clear across the room if I so much as lifted a finger to wipe the sweat off my brow.
That was the end of January, and now I'm about 10 pounds down. So why do I still feel like I should belong to Heifers International?