Today, I had the very unfortunate experience of seeing photos of celebrities at three months post-partum. Aside from the shot of Jessica Alba clad in a bikini (does that girl ever wear anything but?) the photo that most put me to shame was of the star who gave birth just three days after I did. I don’t need to tell you that I questioned my womanhood and came out on the side of thinking that I may actually be a man. A very fat man with super-human lactating man-breasts. And you think that’s something? You should see the post-partum facial hair. Off the charts. Straight out of Ripley’s.
Anyway, those photos haunted me all day. I went up the stairs of my elegant Tony Soprano meets Golden Girls cookie cutter mini mansion, ripped off all my clothes and assessed the jalopy that I cautiously call “my body.” I mean, can’t I trade this thing in or something?
My whole former life passed before my eyes and let me say now, in case I get all out of control weepy here, I love my husband and kids. Love them. They are my life. There is no need to call child protective services or think I am heading for divorce court, okay? But I do miss my old body. And I sort of miss the old me. Not me, my life before Hub and kids—no, I would never want those days back, thank you. But I must say that upon reflection, my old life or rather my old body, was pretty damn hot. I was a hottie. I do feel strange writing this, but show me some love. I am just honoring what once was. Because now, unless I opt for plastic surgery, it is possible that my former body,--as the country folks say— “it ain’t never comin’ back.”