I’m a few pounds away from where I started before this whole baby thing–which I know is absurdly lucky compared to many women who struggle with the weight for months (or years), and in many cases can’t get it off. Believe me, I’m grateful. I’m beginning to fit into many of my old clothes, and I’m thrilled to be able to say hello to shirts I had forgotten I owned. I opened my closet yesterday to a whole new wardrobe; granted, I was getting dressed for a memorial, which takes the blush off of putting on high heels for the first time in a year, but you take your thrills where you can find them (I’m not really that shallow. Usually. The memorial was moving and depressing, but I’m not going to wallow in that puddle here).

However, despite the fact that I’m within five pounds of where I started, the extra weight I was carrying to begin with (ten-fifteen pounds, give or take) seems to have shifted. Moved north, moved south, rolled uphill to uncharted love-handle areas… So now, even though I’m within shooting distance to my old weight, my clothes don’t fit the same. My thighs shrank, my butt grew, and my pants bunch in unflattering ways. My boobs, as we have all heard by now, have a life of their own, which was reaffirmed yesterday when I tried on an old beloved shirt to wear to the memorial and the buttons didn’t give proper coverage. The boobs will deflate someday (I fear what I face when that happens), and I’ll lose a couple more pounds, but I have the feeling that this is the shape of the future. And I don’t know if I like it.

If my butt and hips don’t go back to their old selves, I’ll be wearing my jeans with the top button undone for the rest of my life.

The Froot Loops are settling, my friends. The Froot Loops are settling. And it’s no good trying to tell me that contents are sold by weight, not volume.

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