Not Ready for Mom Jeans (36 page)

“Why do you use the F word so much? It’s so embarrassing, let alone improper and vulgar.”

“It’s just kind of a joke. It’s just to be funny.” I gave a quick laugh.

“Oh, I see. And people on the Internet think it’s humorous?” I pictured her eyes narrowing, preparing to shoot daggers.

“I guess,” I said, and grabbed some packing tape and started sealing one of the boxes.

“Don’t they have censors on the Internet? Like on television?”

Incredulous as to how she can function in today’s society without having any clue as to modern technology and unwilling to explain it to her, I feigned hearing Sara cry and hung up the phone.

Monday, October 13

Despite my New Fabulous Writing Gig, I am officially in the Worst Mood Ever.

Christina made all of the office staff attend an afternoon companywide retreat. She originally told me I could get out of it, since Logan’s party is coming up, but then insisted everyone attend. Half of the staff work at an office across town, so she wanted everyone to get together and do “team-building” exercises. Which is such bullshit, since the only thing that “builds teams” during these retreats is a shared hatred and embarrassment for the activities.

Keri, with her sixth sense, took the day off.

Skinny bitch.

I knew it wasn’t a good sign when I walked into the conference room and a short woman bopped in front of me and handed me an agenda. “Hi! Hi! Hi! Welcome! I’m Amy! I’ll be your moderator!”

I stared at her and waited for her to stop vibrating before I took the paper and wearily sat down next to Mule Face, who was eating a sleeve of onion rings.

“OK, everyone! We’re going to start by giving ourselves nicknames. I’m Awesome Amy. Go around the room,” she barked. I glanced around, trying to figure out if Amy was our moderator or some crazed lunatic who escaped from the psych ward. When no one said anything, she pointed to Christina. “You go first.”

“Er, Classy Christina,” she said, and hung her head a little like a defeated dog.

I panicked and tried to think of a nickname for myself. Cute Clare? Cantankerous Clare? Colorful Clare? Shit, shit shit … um … Crappy Clare? It felt like high school gym class as I prayed for it to be over quickly, painlessly, and without serious bodily harm.

Mercifully, I thought of a name and said, “Cool Clare,” when it was my turn. We then had to make name tags with our new names and had to call each other by those names all day.

“We’re going to start with a game of one-eyed tag! Everyone, get up!” Amy shouted after we put our name tags on.

We all stared at her.

“Up! Up! Up!” she said.

We all slowly obliged and stood up, exchanging looks of dismay and terror.

“Now, everyone cover your right eye!” she said brightly.

“Um, excuse me, Amy,” Mary, a staff member from the other office, said.

“Yes?” Amy did not look pleased.

“Why are we doing this?”

“Just do it!” Amy barked.

We were all scared into submission, so we obliged and covered our right eyes.

“OK, good. Now, I’m It and I’m going to chase you! Ready, set, go!” she said.

We all stood in place, staring at her from our left eyes.

“You don’t want to be tagged by me. Let’s try this again. When I say go, you run, got it? GO!”

We all made an attempt to shuffle around the room, but we were so confused by the assignment, we were all tagged out immediately.

“OK, great! Wasn’t that fun?” Amy said when we finished.

We all mumbled and sat back down in our chairs. I figured she’d go into the psychological reason for making us play one-eyed tag, but she just went into the next exercise. Maybe it was to humiliate us into submission? Like the prisoners in Abu Ghraib?

Next, we had to form a human box around Amy. We had to keep her trapped in the box and move around so she couldn’t escape. Which was a great metaphor for how we all felt. But once again, no explanation.

Finally, she broke us into two teams and we had to write and perform a cheer about how much we love our coworkers. I had to dig my nail into my thigh to stop myself from saying,
I love how I don’t have to see most of you since you work fifteen minutes away! Rah! Rah! Rah! Yay, team!

Just as we all were at our breaking points, Awesome Amy released us. Beat-down, we slunk into our offices or out the door, determined to forget the afternoon.

Wednesday, October 15

Dear Ass:

Why do you have to be so big? Your enormity is simply uncalled for. Why can’t you be more like the other asses? The round and perky ones.

Yes, yes, I know. The whole having a baby thing really screwed you up. You used to be cute, small even. Now you’re just one big white blob covered in stretch marks. I hate to say it, but you’re ugly, Ass.

I realize my part in all of this. I realize that eating Taco Bell and steak isn’t exactly helping you regain your once-glorious form. I get it. I’ll try to cut back. But I would really appreciate if you could at least make an effort to stop looking so heinous.

Sincerely,
The Person Who Owns You

Gah.

It’s been long enough. I’ve been walking around with an extra ten pounds for several months now. And it’s time to bite the bullet, admit I’m chunky, and do something about it.

For the first few months after Sara was born, I remained in total denial about my weight. When I showered, I pretended like I was washing a car or something. And forget about looking in dressing room mirrors or exposing my thighs to direct sunlight. It was easy to deny my chubbiness on maternity leave, since I wore my Miss Piggy pants every day anyway. But then it was time to go back to work and I was still wearing them.

Yeah, well, I’m still wearing them.

It also doesn’t help I have to see Keri’s teeny-tiny thighs every day.

Or, as I played one-eyed tag at the company retreat, I felt my butt flopping up and down like two jackals fighting over a bone in my pants.

So, I’m going on a diet.

But that’s only part of the solution. I need to start working out, too, since losing weight will only solve the “mass” issue and not the “jiggle” issue. I’m going to ask my blog readers for their suggestions.

I considered not posting about my jiggly ass, due to the thought of Greg reading about my struggle of Clare versus Love Handles, but I’m not about to start censoring what I say. After all, if he read through the archives, he’s probably read way more embarrassing material.

9:30 P.M.

My readers suggested everything from kick-boxing to Tae Bo to Pilates to yoga. I even had a few offers for running buddies.

I still haven’t decided what technique I’m going to use to make my body look more like Jennifer Aniston’s and less like Jabba the Hut’s. The problem is, I’ve never really had to work out. Correction: I’ve never really wanted to work out. My body’s never been perfect, but it never necessitated serious athletic commitment to make it look decent. Of course, inevitably, a few times a year, I would watch some great infomercial about the latest workout and spend two hundred dollars and order the damn thing, only to have it collect dust under my bed. The slide thing with the booties, the Firm workout tapes, the Pilates ring, and the yoga band are all hanging out together and laughing at me as I sleep.
Fat ass!
they heckle.

Periodically, I take all of them out, dust the videotapes, and then slide them right back under my bed.

And that used to be the only workout I needed.

But, unfortunately, since having Sara, my body decided to kind of give up a little, so I think it’s going to take more than some light cleaning to whip this blubber into shape.

Love handles: Beware. Your days are numbered.

Tuesday, October 21

My diet is going well. If you don’t count all of the beer I drank yesterday.

Last night, I dragged Reese out of the house and made her come on a Haunted Pub Crawl with me. Keri told me about it, since she seems to know everything in the city that involves drinking, so I called and made a reservation. At first, she protested, claiming everything from not being able to find a babysitter to not having anything to wear to not feeling like drinking. I told her Jake offered to babysit all the kids, she had a closet full of amazing clothes, and she could drink water for all I cared. It was just about getting her out of the house and into the outside world. Of course, I felt a little guilty after I imagined all of the liquid calories I would consume, none of which would help me say
arrivederci
to Miss Piggy pants, but I figured I could sacrifice in the name of friendship. Yeah, that was it.

We met our transportation for the evening, a school bus painted black, in the city. There was a group of about thirty of us. The bus drove us from one bar to another, all supposedly haunted with the ghosts of everyone from old mobsters to jilted bartenders.

We didn’t see anything even slightly resembling a ghost, although Reese claimed ghosts were stealing her drinks because they kept going missing. The fact she was stumbling around after the first bar indicated no ghosts were involved. It was great to see her out, having a great time, having seemingly forgotten about Matt for the evening.

“Thanks so much for taking me out, Clare,” she slurred to me at the third bar.

“Of course. It’s been forever since we’ve been out together. I needed to get you out of that house before you turned into a pasty white albino.”

“You were right. I am having a good time,” she said, and patted me on the back. “I love you.” She leaned forward and hugged me.

“I love you, too.” I laughed.

“Hey, can I buy you a drink?” a cute guy behind her said.

“No, I’m—” She stopped and looked stricken.

“We’re OK,” I said quickly. I grabbed Reese’s hand and pulled her over to a corner of the bar. “So, how’s little baby Brendan?” I asked brightly.

“I didn’t know what to say,” she said. Tears formed in her eyes. “I almost said, ‘I’m married.’ But I’m not. I am, but I’m not. Oh, Clare, what am I going to do?” She buried her face in her hands.

“Reese, you’re going to be great,” I said, and put my hands on her cheeks and kissed the top of her head.

“But the kids. He hasn’t even come over to see the kids. It’s like he doesn’t care.” Her voice came out muffled.

“I’m so sorry, Reese. You’re such a great mom, though. Those kids are the luckiest kids in the world. Shit, will you adopt me?” I said, and tried to laugh.

“I just feel so guilty. I feel like—” She stopped and put her head down on the bar again.

“Is she passed out already?” Julie appeared by our sides.

Reese picked her head up off the bar and wiped her cheeks. “Julie, what are you doing here?”

“My shift ended early, so I thought I’d play domestic and meet the two moms out for some drinks. You guys drink your second beers yet?” She leaned over the bar, massive boobs resting inches from the bartender’s face. “Something strong, surprise me,” she said, and winked at the bartender.