That's right, pals, I've gained 15 pounds since matriculating into RA Academy last August. Luckily, I think I must carry it well as my friends seem genuinely shocked when I tell them I've gained that much (either that, or they are superior liars), but it was verified by my midwife/gyn when I went to see her in April. 15 fatty pounds (trust me, it is not more muscle), all snug and comfy on my formerly trim 5'4'' frame.
It's not really that shocking given everything that happened, so I don't feel too bad about it, but let's face it, gaining unwanted weight sucks. And when you are single, 29, and walking down the streets of New York next to actual skinnyminny supermodels with ittybitty thighs and legs that go all the way up to your collar bones, it sucks even more.
As part of my reluctant initiation into the lovely RA sorority (I knew I hated sororities for a reason), I had to endure a little hazing. For four long months, I could not move or sleep, sending my metabolism into a tailspin of doom. But I could eat, quite a lot, actually, as my taste buds didn't hurt in the least. Getting RA, it turns out, was like the freshman 15 all over again, only this time, without the crazy parties and newfound liberation that usually goes with it. Instead, in addition to having more of myself around than before, I just got to feel like crap all the time and wear ugly shoes.
It also meant I had to suffer the long, cold winter without about half my wardrobe. None of my cute, skinny jeans fit, so I had to go buy a new pair of non-skinny jeans, which was a major undertaking given that my shoulders would start screaming at me whenever I required them to exert effort, so pulling on a pair of pants meant PAIN all over my upper-body. Not fun.
I trudged over to an Express, found a pair that seemed decent and headed to the back. If there had been a hidden mini-cam in that dressing room, anyone watching probably would have thought I was having some kind of conniption as I writhed, jerked and squirmed like some kind of heaving maniac trying to get this damn pair of jeans over my ever-expanding thighs without having to move my shoulders. (I dare all of you to try to get a pair of jeans on while keeping your elbows pinned to your side and your shoulders stationary. Yeah, you'll look like a maniac, too.) I think I kept grunting and huffing, and I'm sure the poor dressing room attendant thought I had smuggled a pig inside. But no, it was just me. And my thighs. Luckily, once I was able to actually get them on, the jeans fit well enough, all things considered, so I paid for them and fled the scene.
Now, nine months later, I'm feeling better. The semester is over, it's officially summer, and it's time to get my ass in gear. I've taken off about five pounds, mostly because I've started exercising again (hooray!!! My metabolism didn't die after all!). I try to practice yoga about three times a week and do my physical therapy work out twice a week. So far, it's going pretty well. I'm also trying to watch what I eat (and not just as it goes from my plate to my mouth) and cut down on some of the foods I like to indulge in (ie. steak frites and cheese). I still have work to do, but I'm feeling confident that, bit by bit, it will come off. After all, now that the alien welt isn't attached to my leg anymore, I've really no excuse. It's time to get out that bikini and head to the beach, and that's exactly what I'm doing this 4th of July weekend!
PS: You didn't actually think I was going to snap the picture with the numbers on the scale showing, did you?