None of my pants fit.
Okay, that's not entirely true. My postpartum-with-Westley pants fit, but I refuse to wear them; they just scream, "I'm waiting to fit into my real clothes again." And, naturally, my maternity jeans fit. But we're not going there. Not even a little.
So yes, after several weeks of eating like a pregnant woman who'd recently rediscovered eating, followed by a week of cookies
for breakfast, I have some weight to lose. Not very much, but a non-zero amount (as Rob would say). Enough to keep my jeans from buttoning.
Pre-pregnancy, I was always teetering on the edge of my clothing size. A few pounds gained, and certain wardrobe items became off-limits. And sizing up turned out to be too much of a change, with waistbands gapping and knees bunching and asses sagging. Clearly, I need to make friends with a tailor.
Restricting my caloric intake and upping my exercise is never something I look forward to, but it feels especially insulting right now. In twelve weeks, I didn't have much time to get especially pregnant-looking, and now, I can't even pretend that the flesh oozing out over my waistband is me "showing." On the other hand, getting back into my clothes (without compromising my health) is a project - something to take my mind off of the tricks my unborn child would have been doing in utero this week, something to distract me while I wait for a normal period, the beacon of "all's well."
For a brief moment, I considered saying, "Fuck it!" and putting everything that doesn't fit into a bag and donating it all to Goodwill. But while that's probably the (mentally) healthier thing to do, I'm vain enough that doing so would feel more like admitting defeat than a gesture of empowerment.
And eating lots of raw fruit and salads? Never a bad idea.