We have all been told that we are who we are, and to ignore what other people have to say about us. But that's just not true. Growing up, I wasn't the prettiest girl in school; I wasn't even in the top 50%. I was thin and a bit unkempt, with zero fashion sense. I was made fun of a lot. Bullied, picked on, got in lots of fights. But no matter what, I was told that it didn't matter what everyone else thought about me. I promised myself I would never be a conformist. I woke up one day and realized that I didn't have to downplay myself just to be different. I started borrowing my sister's clothes, and brushing my hair a little bit more. I never did fit in, and still was not accepted by my peers, but I did feel better about myself.
I was blessed with the kind of genes that allowed me to eat whatever I wanted without gaining a pound. Every day after school I would go to the nearest Jack in the Box and order a Bacon Bacon Cheeseburger with extra large curly fries and a Diet Coke. Weight was never an issue, never something I thought about.
Once I entered the work force, I worked a meaningless job starting selling shoes at the most popular shoe store, along with other mundane jobs around the local mall. Once I turned 18, I started waiting tables. I was terrible at it, and went from restaurant to restaurant looking for one that I would make friends at and enjoy, but never found it. I ended up working at a tanning salon which I liked, but a legal battle between a customer and the store, along with the early hours, caused me to leave. Down to my last dollar with no formal education, a friend helped me land a job working late nights cocktail waitressing at a club and within two weeks I was promoted to bartender. Everyone hated me. The girls were cruel, and had no problem publicly shaming me. They all thought I only landed the bartending position because the company GM was my friend's dad. Maybe it was true. I had never drank an alcoholic beverage, much less served one. I was terrible at this. I was slow, and got confused easily. Many nights I drove home at 3:30 AM in tears because everyone was so mean to me. It was high school all over again, but at least I was getting paid, and paid well. Six months into the job, I woke up. I realized that I had been ignoring what they were telling me, like I was supposed to. At this moment, I told myself to either give up, or prove them wrong. Within another six months I moved up the ranks. I was pulling in a tremendous amount of cash, the cocktail waitresses were lining up at my well for me to serve them, and was ringing the highest amount of money through my register on any given night. I did it. I beat them. They still hated me, but I had earned their respect. It was a grueling job. It was 100% physically demanding, more so than any other non-desk job I had ever had. My feet were constantly blistered, my hands were raw, and I was developing back pain. On average I was burning over 5,000 calories on any given shift with no food breaks. I was in, what I thought, was peak condition and thought I was just naturally blessed.
I continued to tend bar for the next 7 years of my life, it was all I knew how to do and I was damn good at it. Eventually the glitz and glamour wore off. I was tired. I settled for work at a call center. To ensure that my new found desk job would not wear on me physically, I took advantage of the on-site fitness center and joined the company soccer and softball teams.
I met the man that is now my husband in July 2011, was working from home starting in August, then eventually quit my job in October. We were married by November and were pregnant (on purpose) in late December. I had gained approximately 20 pounds in those short months, but it all seemed to fall in the right places. The Husband told me everyday how beautiful I was, and still continues to do so.
Pregnancy took a toll on my body. I was in a lot of pain, my hands and feet swelled to the point that I could no longer wear shoes other than flip flops, which my feet still hung over. But no matter how bad I felt, The Husband reassured me that I was still beautiful and it was just a part of pregnancy. "You're not fat, you're pregnant", he would say. If you ask me to my face, I will tell you I gained 25 pounds. That's just not completely true. Between weeks 1 and 16 of pregnancy, I lost 8 pounds, then gained it back. So I lost 25 plus 8, and then some. I definitely hit the 200 lb mark my 38th week, then just ate and ate after that because it was almost over anyway. I never had a final weigh-in, but I would guess I ended up around 210 pounds. By the time I came home from the hospital, I was down to 188. Then 180. Then 170. The weight just fell off. I hated the sight of my belly though, it just hung off of me. I feared I would never be "normal" again.
A year and a half later I am now 25 pounds LESS than what I was when I got pregnant. My lower belly is still not as firm as I would like it to be. I would love to work out again, even if I don't lose a pound. It makes me feel good inside. It relieves stress. But I will never be a "gym rat", I will never enter a fitness competition, and that's okay. I'd rather spend that time with my family. I have already spent too much time in my life worrying about what people I don't even like think of me, and ignoring the people that truly matter. It has taken me a long time to get here, and I will continue to struggle with my self-esteem no matter what. I look at my belly and tell myself "Your son gave you that." Every stretch mark is there for every time I dreamt of my unborn baby. And I thought The Husband was crazy for telling me they weren't stretch marks, I must have scratched myself. But any man that can accept me for who I am, no matter what I look like, and still love me and continue to tell me how beautiful I am, is a man that deserves for me to care what he thinks. And any man, who will buy not one, but two t-shirts saying "I love my smokin hot wife" and wears them proudly, is not someone to ignore. I always thought he was just being nice, trying to make me feel better. But it finally hit me that he really thinks I am smokin hot. And it really matters what he thinks.
