Today I learned that at 32 weeks pregnant, I have gained 33 pounds. I feel like a total failure. I've been doing everything (I thought) in my power to keep the weight below 35 this pregnancy and its not going to happen. I've put on 14 pounds in six weeks which means I'm averaging about 2.5 pounds a week at this point. My new goal is to stay below 50. Fuck. I'm going to have a good 40 pounds to lose yet again.
I do realize that I'm pregnant and I'm supposed to be putting on weight and its summertime so water is retained and all the things the doctor told me to keep me from taking a nosedive out the window of his office but damn, Gina. Really?
I called my even-more-pregnant-than-me friend for sympathy, forgetting for a split second that the girl is literally one of the most beautiful people on this planet. So much so she actually gets hired to model pregnant. In fact here she is cover-girling it up her last pregnancy:
Meanwhile, I was..... um, yeah.
"I know how you feel, Bec," she said on the phone. "I'm right there with you."
"Really? You are? How much have you gained?"
"Almost 25 pounds!"
"You're eight months pregnant! SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
Anyway, it was my damn fault for calling. Now I just feel like a lonely house. A four-story McMansion. With elephantitis.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my husband who gained 50 whole pounds my last pregnancy (I'm not exaggerating) has been consistently losing weight this pregnancy. In fact, the man has never looked better. Hotter. Sexier. Etc.
At least my last pregnancy we were both fat. There was some comfort in that. Now? I outweigh him by about fifteen pounds (already) which is just fucking depressing.
"Wow, Hal. You haven't gained any sympathy weight at all this time."
"I know. That's because I'm not sympathetic."
So there you have it. Not even my husband feels sorry for my state of ginormity.
Which is why I'm allowed to feel sorry for myself.