Love & Life

Confessions of a Pear

I’m pear-shaped. And not in a questional way where I take some quiz in some random magazine or stare at a chart on the internet. I am straight up – without a doubt – a pear.

I would debate this as a teenager, or should I say, obsess over it. When puberty kicked into gear, the waist started to dwindle and I was a petite size 2 …  for five seconds. I’m not complaining; I couldn’t imagine myself that size now nor do I want to be that size. I’m in a long-term relationship with carbs and, I’ll try not to brag here, but it’s serious.

Puberty hit around 14 and every year after the hips grew wider … and wider … and wider. I went from a size 2 to a size 10 all in four years. Granted, I was athletic. I pretty much did every sport I could. I had some serious definition in my legs from long-distance running and while those trunks were a force to be recken with, I would of felt a whole lot better about my bottom half if my upper half would have gotten the memo.

At one point I had a 28-inch waist and 41-inch hips. Those are some dangerous curves. If I could talk to my younger self I would of embraced them more as they were developing.

If the crop top look was in back in the early 2000s, it would be my go-to. I had a rockin’ bod and I confess, I didn’t see it. When I started to embrace my “birthing hips,” I just focused on how flat-chested I thought I was instead. And that didn’t mean that comments about my 401 (that’s a butt so big it has it’s own code) were tossed aside. Some comments still stung, but I slowly accepted it was just part of me.

If I am going to have hips, can’t I atleast have some boobage to even things up? Does it have to be so obvious that I’m a pear? I never stuffed my bra with toilet paper but I did use the inserts that resemble chicken cutlets from time-to-time. I was a 32A and if somehow I measured anything close to a B, I rejoiced. Until I wanted to be a C. Or a D. Maybe a DD? Even when I did begin to sprout some extra fat in that department and was able to say I was a B, it wasn’t enough.

The wider my hips became, you guessed it, the more attention I got from guy friends and the comments about my butt ensued.

“Kristin has a Navy-size poop deck!” “If we were in Amish country, you’d be worth at least four cows.” “Damn girl, that ass.”

Were these comments suppose to make me feel better? Clearly, my guy friends had little to no game at the time. Sorry, guys. It only made me more self conscious. I played it off like it didn’t bother me. But it did. Now, maybe these guy friends were hitting on me, going back to the old elementary school saying that if a boy is teasing you, he probably likes you. I never dated any of the guys who made these comments because I didn’t find them to be flattering. I found the teasing hurtful and then I became used to it.If I wasn’t getting teased about something on my body, something was wrong that day.

In college, I would yo-yo from a size 8 to a size 12. I loved my small waist so I listened to what the magazines were telling me and played up my favorite feature and hid what I disliked. I wanted people to look up and actually check out my cleavage for once (because I did have something!) instead of my thicker thighs and JLo bum. I was happily dating my future husband but we all know as ladies that we still want to get hit on every once in a while. It gives us a ego boost.

Fast foward to present day, and I’m working on loosing the baby weight from child number three and what’s interesting is that even though things are softer and sag a bit, I’m more confident in my skin than when my body was smaller and toned. Back when the words cellulite, stretch marks and sag were Cardinal sins. And when I say sag, I mean somewhere between Nat Geo and that thing we all do when we raise our arms above our head naked and notice how perky our boobs look. And then we wonder if we can just walk around all day with out arms up in the air or if we should use Kim K’s tape method to give the girls a lift … or do we just embrace that jerk called gravity.

We all want to the perkier ta-tas, but at the end of the day the first thing we do when we are home is take that constricting man-made (though we Googled it at work one day, a woman made the bra, not a man, if you can believe that) piece of crap off. We all have a love-hate relationship with bras … and jeans.

If it fits great in the thigh and hips, there will be too much of a back gap and you’ll be able to cool off nicely with a cold breeze going up the back of your shirt. And most likely you will impersonate a plummer and show some butt cleavage. If you’re really lucky like me, your kid will point it out to you and ask you to pull your pants up. Now I know how the guys felt during the saggy pants trend. It’s not a pretty look on anyone.

So, like I said, I’m a pear-31 and a half inch waist, 45 inch hips, 38C. No shame here. I’m a road with some dangerous curves. Right now, I’m in between a size 12 and 14, working toward a size 12 mainly because I have a beautifully red dress to fit into in less than two months for a military ball. If we didn’t have the dance coming up, I’d probably procrastinate, hibernate one more winter and maybe get serious about fitting into a size 12 again by spring.

I don’t plan on going any smaller than that because I like my curves. I like the story my body tells. It shows the strength of my former days as a athlete, the c-section scar and stretch marks are my badges of honor for birthing three beautiful babies into this world. My boobs show that I provided milk for my babies. The freckles and moles show that I have lived in the sunlight. Wrinkles show that I have laughed and probably made the WTF face a bit too much but still God gave me this body for a reason.

And by putting my body down, I was critiquing his work. I don’t know about you but I wouldn’t go to a natural wonder and say, “Ya know, God should of done this better.”

Just as he made the stars, the oceans, the moutains, he put just as much thought into us. Maybe even more.

Psalms 139: 13,14 – “You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother’s womb. Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous – how well I know it.”

It’s a hard habit to break, I know. I catch myself rolling my eyes when one of my kids runs into my hips or butt and bounces off, falling to the floor, or when I count the bruises on my hips and thighs from hitting the corner of tables. But as long as I am aware and try to replace the eye roll with something positive, it’s a step in a better direction.

I’m not sure if I have made any confessions in this blog but hopefully someone will read this and agree that we are way too hard on ourselves and unfortunately, we don’t see it until much later.  So maybe instead of waiting until 10 years later to appreciate the bodies we have now, why not start today?

I have big arms. The Hulk has been referenced a time or two by friends and collegues. I have big hips. I have thicker thighs and a booty. So what? They don’t define me, they are just part of me but actually don’t make up anything other than that’s how God intended my body to be. I could starve myself and be miserable (and break up with carbs) or eat reasonably and be happy. It’s my choice, my body. And it’s incredible.

And actually I to confess something, if i wear the right curve hugging dress to Lowe’s or any store with abundantly more male employees than female, it doesn’t take long for someone to ask if I need help. It’s kind of sad but it’s the truth. If I come into the store looking more like myself, the less help I seem to get.

Now, I’ve said many times that I am lucky to have a husband who has never made a comment about my weight, especially when I am very pregnant (smart man). And if he makes any comments now, he treads lightly but I know he loves my curves. He’s told me more than once. And while that’s great, it matters to me more that I love them. Sure, there are days I wish my arms were smaller or that I didn’t have to worry about chub rub in the summer months but that’s okay. I’m better than I was yesterday and that’s what counts.

I appreciate what you have done for me pear-shaped body, and I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate you sooner. But I do now so let’s celebrate with some birthday cake flavored ice cream!

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