I have worn the same size clothes since the girls were born. Basically. I think I may have gone down one jeans size since then, but it would have been immediately after they were born due to the fact that nearly seventeen pounds of human being/human being life support system got removed from my abdomen.
Also, I became absolutely watertight.
I was supposed to have the girls on Tuesday, the 22 of May, 2012. I had to go to Erie every Friday, though, for nonstress tests and imaging. Because when you’ve got two people inside you, the people outside you like to keep tabs on that shit. I was told explicitly, in no uncertain terms, that a 40-week gestation period – the breed standard for human singletons – was not applicable in my case.
“Have a go bag ready by 34 weeks. Expect to deliver between 36 and 38 weeks,” I was told. Particularly because both of my fet…um…what’s the plural of fetus? Feti? I don’t know what it is but I want it to be feti.
And so it shall be.
Both of my feti were large. So I really should not have been expected to continue stretching to accommodate them past 36 to 38 weeks. Nevertheless, like our lord and savior Elizabeth Warren, I persisted. Because I am an equal-opportunity avoidant personality.
As I do with all scary shit, I avoided dealing with it. Even my body was like, “you know what? Yeah. Let’s just not.”
By May 18, 2012, which was a Friday, my designated Erie day, I barely fit in the car. I definitely didn’t fit in the forklift I drove at work anymore. That shit had ended like six months before. And, although I suffered absolutely zero negative effects from growing people in my thorax (I know it’s an abdomen but I really just wanna use the word thorax because it’s better, and more fun, both to picture and to say), aside from forest fires in my duodenum for around the last five months thanks to Harper’s freaking mane (you could see it waving around in the ultrasounds, you guys, like mermaid hair) my cankles were hell, y’all.
I had my ultrasounds in the obstetrician’s office and then waddled over to Magee for nonstress tests. Which sucked. Because good luck getting a five-minute-straight vital on two individual future gymnasts and their mother. It’s not easy. It’s not fun. It’s not a quick process. The five minute ticker the nurses were tasked with gathering each week took an average of 60 to 90 minutes per trip.
That last Friday, the obstetrician found that both of the girls were losing amniotic fluid, but apparently that was cool. Because I was supposed to deliver in three days. And it was only a 90 minute ride home.
By way of absolute Hell for my coccyx, ankles, back, and general will to live.
Oh, God. See? That’s one month and two days before I had them.
Sweet Christ, Linda. Why’d you make me walk on sand for the love of God and all that’s holy? Shit. I’m in pain just looking at that picture. That’s a month out. I got bigger you guys.
When I got to the triage at Magee that afternoon, which is where you hang out while they make sure you’re all still alive, I was begging the nurse to do something like a trafficking victim trying to toss eye signals and throw gang signs at the gas station clerk in order to get saved from a most horrible fate. She ran one hand down my left leg and retained water literally beaded out of my skin. And then she called the obstetrician and informed him that I’d be having the people removed from my body that afternoon.
I love you, nurse whose name I never got.
Like, I LOVE you, love you.
Now, I haven’t been trying to lose weight. Which is why, when I go to Maurices – which is the only store where I shop for clothes – I don’t really have to try on anything unless it’s a size smaller than I usually get. Even then, it’s usually okay. But I haven’t been out of my size of jeans since 2012. Because I don’t wear stretchy jeans you guys. It’s not that dire of a situation yet. I know, because I used to have a pair of jeans two sizes smaller than I’ve been wearing since 2012 that I was saving, because I have delusional beliefs about my ability to make good food choices and engage in healthy levels of physical activity that doesn’t involve grocery shopping or walking into the Outback Steakhouse.
But I must have finally gotten real with myself and donated them to the Sally Army, because I went through every clothing receptacle at my house last night and they are gone. I just bought a pair of jeans one size smaller than my normal size, after I went to wear all my established jeans and none of them fit. Like, I don’t even have a belt small enough to make the jeans I’ve been wearing for five years stop falling off my ass when I walk.
I just keep thinking about all those spots on my kidneys that they found last year, and the fact that I eat Zofran like Skittles, and try to tell myself that it’s probably nothing. It’s probably just all the typing I’m doing or something. Because every time I go to the doctor they tell me I’m fine. I’m just a woman. With a history of anxiety.
And it doesn’t look exactly like the examples in any of the textbooks.
So clearly I’m doing it to myself.
Stop worrying about it.
And the unspoken directive is actually “stop coming here, you’re just a fucking mental case.”
So eventually you just stop going. Because no one likes to feel like a crazy person, and I’d really rather just be nauseated and cringing in pain than nauseated, and cringing in pain, and also embarrassed and second guessing my mental stability.
Anyhow. I bought a size lower than I usually wear, because “surely they’ll be even a little snug,” was my reasonable intuitive wisdom. Because my weight has not made a jeans-size-decline in five years and I’m not doing anything different than I’ve done in the past five years so logically, my dimensions shouldn’t be shifting enough to make my clothes fit that differently. Right? Of course.
And if I’m not trying to lose weight then it stands to reason that my weight should still be basically the same as it’s always been. Just, you know. None of my clothes fit.
And the next size lower didn’t fit either.
Those jeans that I loved and delusionally dreamed of one day wearing again and then got real honest with myself and forced myself to drop in the Sally Army box? I need them back! Because I can’t afford to keep buying jeans, even though I buy nothing at Maurices that’s less than 40 percent off the already reduced sale price.
It’s fine. One of my garnishments just came off from Pheaa. I’ll be able to put my gigantic pay increase (bahahahah) toward a new pair of jeans next month, I’m sure.
But the good news is that I went down two jeans sizes.
Which means I don’t have to feel bad about eating Wendy’s for dinner.
Which I did.
And it was delicious.
Happy Good Friday.
Two more days to Zombie Jesus Day, you guys.