The shirt becomes her

The first time I set foot in the gym near my home, I wore my maternity pants and one of my husband's t-shirts. Oh, I looked like I did NOT want to be there.  I reluctantly signed up for a membership, at which time I'm sure the good-looking young man behind the counter was snickering, saying to himself, "I bet this is the last time I'll see her in here for another month." 

Then, as I impatiently leaned against the wall waiting for a recumbent bike (the easiest machine on the whole main floor), some super young, super cut little dude came up to me with a weird smirk and asked if I needed any help.  I said I was fine, and that I was just waiting for a bike.  He pointed me to the whole line of other machines and said, "Why wait? You're here. Just do it."  I smirked back, hunched down a little bit more, crossed my arms and kept waiting. He walked away looking offended that I wouldn't enlist his training expertise to whip this overweight, post-maternity body into shape. 
I just knew that I could not lose the weight on my own. Not after the second baby.  There was little motivation. After all, I had a perfect excuse: I had just had my baby, and everyone knows that it takes just as long to get off the weight as it does to put it on (roughly 9 months).  But my baby was already 5 months old, and I was still carrying about 50 extra pounds.  My secondary excuse was even more perfectly acceptable: moms in their 30's and 40's can get away with being "chubby". They've got so much on their plates that they don't have time or energy to lose the weight. Plus, who's looking anyway?  I was 33, happily married, a mother of two small girls, and I hang around with my church girlfriends and other goody-goodies around town.  Why would it matter if I were thin and hot ever again?

I dragged myself in to see a trainer twice a week to start.  The child care was excellent at the gym, so that was a motivating factor: cheap babysitting while I did something other than change poopy diapers and/or do my other important motherly duties; and cheap babysitting while I took long, hot showers and did my hair and makeup.  Shoot, my workout was only 30 minutes, but I maxed my time out there to a good 2 hours. 

When I walked out of there, I felt badly about myself because I was still overweight, but I felt better because at least I had my hair and makeup done for when my husband came home -- well, in theory that was true, but if this all occurred in the morning, everything would have gone to heck by the time he saw me 7 hours later.  Nonetheless, I was motivated to keep going.

After I had lost nearly 20 pounds, I had to find more motivation.  I was still overweight, but I couldn't stand sharing my husband's t-shirts anymore, and the maternity pants needed to go.  I went to buy a more fitted shirt for my workouts at the thrift store.  I wasn't about to spend more than $1 on a lousy top, when I was only going to get it sweaty and stinky in a matter of minutes.  So, as I perused the $1 rack, I found a size Sm, and I decided to just go ahead and get it, even if it was a bit snug. 

I didn't know then that I had just bought the t-shirt that has changed my life.  It has a hot pink "Little Miss Bad" character from Hargreaves' "Little Miss" collection, most often known for "Little Miss Sunshine". I tried it on at home, and yes, it was snug, but the first day I wore it to the gym I told myself, "I can be bad."  Not naughty-bad, but "badass"-bad.  Okay, I don't curse often, if at all, but "badass" is a term that I am going to proclaim as slang, not cursing.  It originated in the 1960's, and it means to be excellent or tough.  I claimed that for myself that day, and henceforth I am "Little Mrs. Bad".