In the dressing room at Target today, I got a full-on 360 of my pants-clad-butt.
Now, I've always known that I can err on the side of curvy. Once I stop paying attention, the rear-end groweth and the hips spreadeth. But sweet fetus jesus! Had I been aware things have spiraled this far I WOULD NOT have had that second tuna fish sandwich yesterday.
It's been about 3 years worth of denial over my belly. And the way I see it: So be it. It housed and nurtured and grew two immensely fabulous baby girls and it's earned it's place (besides, on a good day, after a goooood BM, I can suck that shit right the hell in with none the wiser). But man! My ass is out of control.
Though never a big girl, I developed a nice, hearty eating disorder in my early twenties anyway. Really gross. Really effective. Really tenacious. That bitch stuck around in fits and starts till my early thirties. It's a non-issue any more and bringing it up now only serves the purpose to relate how, shall we say: mis-guided I can be about my womanly form.
Kind of alternate universe, actually. While I used to see a 'fat girl' who should be thin, now I see a 'thin girl' who in reality has far more than her share of junk in the trunk.
This will be taking some time to get used to.
Oh, I didn't buy the pants.