If you are ever in a situation where you have to wear a bathing suit postpartum, and I really am extending the deepest of sympathies here, there’s always a secret part of you, in that deep, dark, black part of your soul, that is really hoping someone fatter than you is coming to the pool party. That way you’re being graded on a curve, and maybe you won’t look quite so bad.
Some women, these lucky, blessed women, don’t get stretch marks. Their ab muscles do not liquify more and more with each subsequent pregnancy. They abound in energy, going to the gym, and showing remarkable self restraint with regards to french fries. They’re like unicorns or narwhals, the unicorns of the sea (because we’re at a pool party).
I don’t know what happened in my gene pool. I got the “this baby is going to totally wreck you” and “you’re having more than one baby? ahahah, you’re screwed!” genes. I mean, it’s not all bad, just my torso suffered massive postpartum casualties. How do I describe the experience of scooping my boobs into the bathing suit cup? Wet crepe paper? My stomach? Nickelodeon Gak. No! Floam. I think my stretchy stomach looks like Floam. This is how I feel when arriving on scene in a bathing suit:
And so, the saga of being a woman continues. I’m going to blame genetics, how about you?