How you can save me from this cursed metabolic slump

I have a great many positive qualities, if I do say so myself, but self-discipline is not among them. To my credit, if you met my parents you’d think I was a self-control success story. These people have virtually no filter between their brain and their mouth. But regardless, it is true that I do lack discipline.

And so my New Year’s resolutions tend not to be terribly fruitful. But this year, I am following-through on my follow-through I am kicking ass and taking names. Because . . .

I need to lose this baby belly.

The baby’s no longer a baby but the belly is still a belly – aye, there’s the rub. And I am relying on you, dear, wise readers to help.

My obstacle is this:

I’ve never had to exercise to stay skinny. I say this knowing you won’t hate me because it is, sadly, in the past. Before the age of about 30, I was untouchable. Ate anything. Never worked out. Stayed at my college weight. It was the honeymoon phase between me and my woman’s body. Even after two kids, I was back in my old XS clothes within a month or so. Oh, how the pride goes before a fall! That cursed metabolic slump of my 30s! Oh the ruined abdominal wall of two pregnancies! But lamenting doesn’t give you a six-pack. I’ve tried. It turns out you have to WORK for it. The indignity.

What I’m trying to sugarcoat is this:

I’m lazy. Shockingly, incredibly, balls-out lazy. I despise sweating. I loathe panting for breath. It just seems so uncivilized. But the time has come for change. I made a New Year’s Resolution for Chrissake. So the question, dear readers is this:

How do I get rid of the baby belly? Oh, one caveat. No diets, please. I don’t smoke or drink or have casual sex, I watch my TV with the volume low and shop at Target, so eating pasta and the occasional burger is what I do for kicks. Take that away and where do I get my jollies?

I’m taking about exercise. I’m willing to sweat and I’m willing to do it every day, provided it takes 30 minutes or less. I’m about the realistic plan, to maximize chances for success. You know, starting small and building momentum.

I didn’t say it would be easy. But I KNOW you can help me, fitness gurus out there. My abdomen depends on you!

A Mother's Day Cry for Help

A day to honor me, Mommy Dearest, is nice and all but it really isn’t nearly enough to get the job done so I decided to extend the run of Mother’s Day to the whole weekend.

“You take whatever time you need,” David offered magnanimously. That was Friday morning.

On Saturday afternoon, while I sat in the chair of Arrojo studio, waiting for my highlights to soak into my hair and reading People, it was a different story.

“So what’s going on?” David asked on the phone, none too kindly, “When should we expect you back?”

In the background, Primo screamed that something was “ALL YOUR FAULT DADDY!” Seconda wailed her interminable wail.

“Well, I have a haircut after this and then I was going to do a little shopping,” I said, “But if you need me ---“

”No, forget it, we don’t need you,” said David curtly, “SECONDA DO NOT PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!”

Then the phone went dead.

My first reaction was rage at David for hanging up on me. My second response was fear for the life of my two young children under his care.

Rather than opt for either of these, I decided to laugh. Ha ha ha, ho ho ho! Because I was free!! And all the shit hitting the fan on the other end of the phone was totally not my problem.

I let out a hearty chuckle and got back to the important business of reading why Kirstie Alley has recently gained 83 pounds.

With a golden head of bouncy hair, I sashayed down 7th Avenue, feeling like a hot number. Popped into Loehmann's -- why not? -- and spent a whole hour happily shopping for clothes. But here’s where things took a turn.

I feel I need to get into this issue now, because, hey, I am not one to shy away from the tough questions, I am an unflinching investigator of the human condition. So let’s roll up our selves and dig in.

I can not stop shopping in the Juniors section.

Help me, please. Because I don’t want to be the grandma with single-processed platinum hair and boobs flapping around near her belly button pulling Necessary Objects shrugs off the rack to bring into a communal dressing room. And I think that’s right where I’m headed.

Here's how I know. When I got home and showed David the loot, I realized that every single item of clothing, all from the Juniors section, all peasant-y, patchwork, embroidered summer items, every single piece was totally and I do mean utterly see-through.

Now I have nothing against diaphanous apparel. Was a time I was the QUEEN of see-through clothing. Between the ages of about 15 and 30, I didn’t mind showing a little too much skin, because well, all the skin covered was muscle, bone and appropriately-placed deposits of fat that evolution put there for a reason. This was the chapter in my life, and I’ll be honest here, where I used clothing to adorn, entice and advertise my goods.

Two children later, the purpose of clothing for me has changed. I now choose clothing based on how well the piece of apparel deceives people into believing that I am less -- how can I put it -- robust than I really am. And see-through clothing is not helpful in that endeavor.

What we’re talking about here is aging gracefully. Aging gracefully means knowing when to stop wearing denim miniskirts, unless you are a celebrity. Aging gracefully means trying clothes on in a private dressing room, with a door, so the only person who has to see you squeeze your ample ass into one-size-too-small Capri pants is you. Aging gracefully means when you are pushing a stroller containing two bratty kids who are prone to attracting not-very-positive attention to you, that you should be wearing clothes that have no possibility of showing your cotton panties underneath.

I am failing at aging gracefully.

But I did have a lovely mother’s day weekend, complete with breakfast in bed, chocolate madelines and a gift of fine jewelry crafted by the hot new designer, Primo himself. The upside of my shopping misstep is that I now have an excuse to go back to Loehmann’s in less than fourteen days, to return see-through clothing. Anyone brave enough to join me and make sure I steer clear of Juniors?

Gut-sucking

If you can still suck the gut in, you’re not fat. I came up with this rule of thumb today, when I realized that if I sucked in my big ole baby belly to the extent that my ribs protruded a bit, then twisted and turned different parts in strategic ways, I could almost pass for my pre-baby hot self.

“Still got it.” I said to David as I showed him the results of my labor.

That was heartening. The problem is, when I un-suck, my whole abdominal area balloons out like I am being inflated. It just really looks like I am 3 or 4 months pregnant. In fact, if I was 3 or 4 months pregnant, I wouldn’t look bad at all. I’d look kind of fantastic. I fleetingly considered just pretending that I was preggo so that all of my body issues would evaporate and people would think I was hot again. But then I realized that was psychotic.

I once came up with a genius weight-loss-illusion idea. It was called the “lie-down diet.” On the lie-down diet you just recline fully and let gravity do the work to make yours a flatter stomach. It was a wonderful idea but the catch was that gravity also makes your tetas looks flatter and that was too high a price for me to pay.

So now I am back to relying on Spanx, gut-sucking and the hope that one day I will spontaneously decide that sit-ups are my cup of tea.

And I’d just like to note that although I curse copiously in front of my 2 year-old daughter -- enough that she mutters “shit” whenever she drops Goldfish from her snack trap -- I do not use the word fat in front of her. So although I don’t have enough discipline to actually make myself un-fat, I have enough not to talk about it in front of my impressionable she-child. And for those keeping track, please add this to the list of reasons why I should at least be considered for Mother of the Year.

Happy-Go-Lucky

My husband says that all I do is complain, so just to prove him wrong, I think I’ll start this post by saying that I’m having a wonderful day. The first thing this day has to recommend itself is that it is Friday, and although it is certainly not the end of my work week, it is the end of David’s, and that means he will be home for the next two days and the children will spend some of their time and energy torturing him, making life better for me.

Secondly, it is resplendent outside. So I won’t be forced to search for mittens for a half hour, fight the baby to put them on for another five minutes, and then pick them up off the pavement repeatedly. Fantastic

.

Oh, and thanks to Dine In Brooklyn, I was able to enjoy a scrumptious 3-course meal with two mommy friends, at Rosewater last night for just $23. A large portion of the mealtime conversation was devoted to our baby bellies. The ones we are left with after the pregnancy, not during. My friend opened up the can of worms by saying that when she was getting changed for a yoga class, she happened to catch a glimpse of her body in the full-length mirror and was not pleased by what she saw.

Now, I didn’t want to get into a fatso competition but, I pointed out to her, there is no WAY her baby belly could be worse than mine, if only because she noticed it in a yoga studio., She’s making an effort to better herself and you generally get rewarded for that shit. I, however, will never be rewarded because I hate exercise and never do it. Let me amend that statement. I happen to think I do a lot of exercise. I climb up three flights of stairs to my apartment carrying my two year-old and dragging my four year-old multiple times a day, and when I get to the top, my heart is pounding so hard I feel like I’m about to enter cardiac arrest. I am on my feet nearly all day, running, hoisting, squatting, lunging, and doing other manner of things that people do in step-aerobics class. So I’m entitled to some reward, too, aren’t I? I mean, it’s not like I’m lounging on my chaise eating bon bons.

But nooooooo, this kind of exertion does not count when it comes to tackling the dreaded baby belly. Only serious, formal abdominal work will make a difference, I know. I have tried to make that kind of thing a part of my daily routine. Last week I tried. On Monday. I even had Primo help design me a sticker chart.

“Just think of it as helping the kid learn to count,” said David, “You have no problem committing to the projects that improve them. Have Primo sit on your feet and count to 50 while you do the sit-ups.”

As it turns out, Primo had no problem counting to the number of sit-ups I was able to do. Seconda could probably count to that number. It was disheartening, to say the least.

If I live long enough I will see the day when some very smart scientists invent a way to get rid of my baby belly without me having to experience this kind of indignity. I’m waiting for that day. And while I wait, I am wearing empire-waisted clothing.

So, as you see, my husband is wrong about me. I’m really quite a happy-go-lucky kind of gal.