Sexy Pants Needed

I am a happy girl today.

I have lost seven pounds in a little less than a month.


It means that finally, after three months of running and eating better and drinking a *%#@ tonne more water and obsessing… that the scale has moved. I was beginning to doubt I would see weight loss, even though my clothes are looser, my energy is up, my moods are better, and some of the little fat-wrinkles that I despise on my body are less so. I was beginning to lose hope of ever seeing the scale budge. I had nightmares of running the Boston marathon at my current weight. Fully capable of running the distance, just fat-and jiggly as I traversed!

FYI, running that far all at once is a nightmare on its own, but I digress…

I know that inches are more important, I know that muscle weighs more than fat. I also know not to focus on my weight. It is hard. So very, very hard. I avoid scales, and weigh myself infrequently.

The Metformin I have to take has (finally) brought my levels under control*. This helps melt fat, and with the sugars under control, my body can work properly to shed the fat and build the muscle. It took awhile for my body to get used to this *$%@ medication, (cue the upset stomach, shakes, crankiness due to said digestive upset the where I felt like I was poisoning my body…) but now that it has, I feel a whole heapin’ teaspoon of sugar better. Heh…

The up side of this mini-milestone is that I am (finally!) losing pounds. On a frame of 5’1″, this can show signifigantly. I’m wee, so if I gain a pound, you notice. there’s not a lot of me to spread the fat around on, so to speak. So even losing a few pounds means you see it! Bonus! (Note: you are always the last person to see the weight come off, others will notice first)

The down side is that I need new pants. Yes, I know, its a great problem to have, but hear me out. With a tight budget right now, buying new jeans, well… That ain’t happenin’, sista. No Travelling Pants for me. Case in point. My size 18 jeans are falling off of me. I put them on a week or so ago and they fell off with the first step into a rumpled, denim puddle around my feet.


So I tried my size 16’s. They are so loose I have to hold them up to walk, or borrow my husband’s belt. (read: Not very feminine)

For the record, women’s clothing sizes are *$#@%$& messed up, yo. A size in one store does not mean a size in the next store will even come close to the same measurements. I envy men with their ability to buy based on collar size, inseam, and waist. Grrr…

But once my “small” 16’s are too big (Yes, this will happen), what then? I have nothing else, having given away all the clothes I had not worn since before having children. I even got rid of my old tight-butt, long leg jeans that I wore the day I met my husband. I loved those jeans, they fit me perfectly, and made me feel a hundred feet tall, sexy as hell, and invincible. Calvin Klein, you get my body shape, dear. I love you.

Or, at least my “before-kids” body shape. because after having two kids, WTF… Nothing is where it is supposed to be, and I have a cesarean scar to contend with. Any girl with a C-scar knows how hard it is to find jeans to f it over that so it doesn’t a) chafe, b) make the skin on top of the scar poke out like a tiny spare tire. c) cause a massive muffin top because the waist doesn’t sit where your waist is anymore.

This means, by roundabout explanation, that I am stuck wearing baggy-assed jeans (with a belt) until new jeans can be procured. It also means my running pants are getting loose, and they are chafin’ that little wee bit. Just enough to be annoying, so add that to the list of things I need to buy** Argh.

I want to lose the same amount again in the next month before we jettison up North of the Big Smoke for Tough Mudder. It is for purely superficial reasons (in the short term. My long term weight loss goals are still very deep and rooted in beating the Diabetes Beast with a big &%#@$* stick) and I am not ashamed to say that:

I wanna look hawter© while I stand on the sidelines and wait for my husband and his team to come over the finish line and give me adrenalin-filled, nasty, wet, muddy, sexy hugs of victory.

I want to feel confident in my body. I want to feel like I belong amongst the fitness freaks and hard bodies dotting the venue.

And as an extra? Wearing pants that fit whilst being hugged would be nice.

*Diabetes sucks, y’all
**Also? I need running tanks. I have a Farmer’s Tan™, and that is so not sexy.

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