Mary over at The Mommyologist is doing this thing on the last Monday of every month (she's keeping it up through Friday, so I just made it). She wants to start a discussion on how Moms bring their sexy back.
I don't think she's talking about MILFS. Although they're people too. Anyway, she asked "what in your life is holding you back from feeling Mom Sexy? What is the one thing that you need to let go of in order to let your inner sexy emerge?"
Definitely head over to her blog and check out her vlog. HYSTERICAL. And since I didn't hear a "YIPE!" at the end of the video, I'm sure no small animals were harmed in the filming.
I've been thinking (over the soundtrack in my head of JT singing "I'm Bringing Sexy Back) about this and I realize the one thing I need to let go of? My grey yoga pants.
So I decided to write a letter to them.
Dear Yoga Pants,
I met you years ago, after Sage was born. You were dark and you looked really cute. I got you for a steal at Lucy.
And from there, our love grew.
You were what I slipped into when I wanted to be more comfortable. You made me feel okay to go to Target in nothing but you and a tee shirt, knowing you had my back. Literally.
I wore you instead of shorts to physical therapy, so that when I got stretched, no one could see the flabalanch that is my inner thighs, or worse, the fact I haven't had a bikini wax since 2002.
I loved you. I really did.
You were SO loyal. You didn't even mind when I got pregnant. You stuck with me as I gained. And gained. And gained. You grew to fit me. You stretched your limits. You didn't complain when I couldn't even see your waistband, when I could barely pull your drawstring.
And then. After X was born. There you were, ready for our next adventure. You didn't care that I still carried
But then I started losing the weight. You became not so clingy. I guess we both needed our space. But then you got baggy, and quite frankly, that's not appealing. I know I shouldn't be so superficial, but it's true. You just didn't bounce back, while I am back to the size I was when we first met. Smaller, even.
You, however. You let yourself go. You have HOLES, for chrissake.
How can I feel sexy? It's bad enough I have three kids and spend my days covered in snot and dirty handprints, and doing super glamourous stuff like driving the Mom Taxi and racing to grab X before he climbs the stairs - again. I don't need to have the saggy ass, too.
Let's be honest: I don't need you anymore.
Strike that. I don't WANT you anymore.
I've moved on. To pants that, you know, actually fasten. With a button. And a zipper. That make me feel a little less frumpy. A little more put together. That remind me I'm a woman, that I'm worth it.
So yes, you've seen me through
Hell, I don't even DO yoga.
Goodbye, Yoga Pants.
Thanks for the memories. But we're through.