I have let myself go. Seriously. I wear the same pair of three year old capris pretty much every single day. It’s too warm here for my beloved yoga pants and it’s too cold for shorts, not that I would wear them. I don’t exactly have the thighs for shorts right now. I easily lost about half of my baby weight, you know, the half that was baby and all that other icky stuff that came out with her. But the rest of the baby weight seems to be sticking around for the duration. I’m sure my chocolate addiction is not helping. My stomach looks more like a fanny pack then it probably should considering it’s a stomach, not a fanny pack. Speaking of fanny packs, they were genius. A hands free purse? Um, yes please. I’m counting the days until fanny packs come back into style because I will definitely be rocking that shit.
I probably only put makeup on once a week, and even then I only just barely do. Mascara and eye liner, just enough to make it look like I actually have makeup on at all. I don’t have time for bb crème, nor do I even know what bb crème is, let alone own any. I do take the time to do something with my hair every day; I put it up in a ponytail to get it out of my daughter’s reach. Shower, deodorant, lotion, brush teeth, that’s the extent of my daily beauty regimen. My daughter doesn’t care what I look like. As long as I keep putting my boob in her mouth, we’re good. My dogs don’t care what I look like. As long as I keep letting them sleep on the couch I could wear a fanny pack around the house and they would give zero shits.
It’s not that I stopped caring. I still care about how I look, I just don’t care enough to do much about it. I hardly leave the house and I sure as hell am not getting all dolled up for my afternoon walks or for my weekly shopping trips to Target. That in a way is even sadder, specifically putting on makeup just to go to Target. Not that I haven’t done this. I have. And I felt shitty afterwards; I’ll put on a dab of makeup for the strangers at Target, but I won’t do the same for my husband? And what about my husband? I’m sure he has stopped expecting me to greet him at the door in a negligée, high heels, a garter belt, and a baby on my hip. I feel a little bad for not putting in the effort for him. But at the same time I kind of feel like I’m doing him a favor. Why look all sexy for him only to get him all excited for a frisky night that is not going to happen. I haven’t been in the mood since our daughter was born. I’m not right down there anymore. 90% of that is mental, but the other 10% is warranted; I popped a baby out three months ago, shit is gonna change after that happens and it’s gonna take time for my post-baby popping out area to get back to something resembling pre-baby popping out area. I’m actually doing kegels as I’m typing this. Hell, I even bought Ben Wa balls off of Amazon. I’ve used them twice and let me tell you, they did not make me feel all sexy and turned on like “50 Shades of Grey” led me to believe they would. Pretty much my vagina just wants to be left alone right now. Same goes for my boobs.
Things will get back on track in the future. Eventually, when flu season is a distant memory, I will leave the house again. I’ll take the time to put on makeup and clothes that are actually flattering. I’m never wearing high heels again though. Fuck high heels. Someday I’ll be able to wear sexy bras again, ones that don’t have little hooks on them that instantly release my boobs for nursing. Though I really don’t know what’s sexier than instant boob access but Victoria’s Secret isn’t blowing up my phone asking for nursing bra design ideas. They don’t seem to be very supportive of breastfeeding anyway, so I’m going to go ahead and file them under the same category as high heels. I will feel sexy again. I’ll greet my husband at the door with a Coors Light (nothing is sexier than a woman holding a can of your favorite brand of beer) and purr, “Our daughter is playing in her room. Why don’t we have ourselves some frisky time?”