My discovery of this jiggly started when my husband looked at me two weeks ago and said.
“Those jeans don’t fit like they use to.”
“Um, yeah. I did have a baby.”
I know he didn’t mean it a derogatory. Really, I think he is proud of it. Because he won’t have to explain to his family that his wife isn’t anorexic anymore; she is just really skinny. Pulse at the age of twenty-three I finally have hips and a budonka-donk. But it did make me start sneaking honest looks at my new form in the mirror.
What an unsettling experience.
I will be honest; I thought I would get lucky and keep the same figure I entered my pregnancy with. Now, I have this pouch sitting on my front side. I should just name Darren Joey and tuck him back inside until he can walk.
Any change to a woman’s body regardless of her pervious weight, shape, etc. is life changing. And like most women I feel a huge urge to count carbs, diet excessively, and take inventory any and all pieces of food that past my lips and win my body back.
And like any sensible woman, I combine these extremes with going out to buy better fitting jeans.
I wiggle in to a part of Charlotte Russe Curvy Boot dark wash jeans and look in the mirror. The jiggly is making a definite concave, but my waist still has circulation. Then there is a knock on the fitting room door.
“Baby you in there?”
“Yeah,” I open the door to show him the wares. He looks them over. They get the butt-approval. I look doubtfully in the mirror and grab my jiggly.
He’s preening in the mirror.
“Babe, are you ok with my jiggly?”
Without looking at me he keeps smoothing his hair down. I block his view still clutching my pouch.
He looks me in the eye.
“Do you mind my jiggly?:
“No.”
“So I can’t really say anything can I? You look great.”
Have I mentioned I love this man?
