Devolution

I am the fat girl standing in front of the kitchen freezer with an open gallon of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream nestled in the frozen-numb crook of one arm, a spoon in my free hand. I have no need of bowls and have long since abandoned even looking to see if there are any clean ones in the cupboard. We bought a lovely imported dinner setting but I prefer my colorful, dripping carton - mostly because it doesn't need to be washed and is the sugar junkie's equivelant of neverending Nirvana. I hunt down the little morsels of cookie dough, scoop out the thick chocolate flakes...melt them on my tongue. I briefly wish I'd just gone ahead and bought the tube of actual cookie dough - you know, the pre-bake kind. Easy access. But....oh, I couldn't possibly.

OK, so I'm not *really* all that fat...I mean, I'm pregnant for goodness sake. But let me tell you, let me admit - I'm milking it for all it's worth, and then some.

I spent the first 34 years of my life working however hard was necessary to be the thin-girl ideal in a society that punishes roundness with a vengeance and I'll be damned if I'm not going to take full advantage of these nine months. The only time in my life I'll ever be given 'permission' to gain weight. Gone zaftig; it's wonderful and freeing and I fear I may never go back...

But gluttony is not for me. Not long term at least. And 40 pounds into my pregnancy with another three months or so to go means I'm fighting an uphill battle already. My midwives comfort me by pointing out that I'm actually expected to gain more weight, considering how light I was when I got pregnant. Their assuaging of my guilty ice cream stained soul works wonders and I remind myself that this organic goodness has lots of calcium...we don't want to get all rickety now, do we?

Hamid insists daily that I'm beautiful. I have to admit, I'm finally starting to believe him. The irony of this does not escape me.