All's Quiet on the Western Front

As I stepped on the scale for the third time since being declared "recovered" from childbirth, I anticipated weight loss. After all, since my doctor (who had broken his leg while roping calves since the appearance of the little angel - go figure) told me "go get, 'em, tiger," I figured this meant that I, like Kate Hudson, could pick up Pilates and suddenly lose massive amounts of weight, look fabulous and still be publically photographed eating pizza and drinking alcohol.

But oh, no. I am not Kate Hudson. I do not have a personal trainer, a nutritionist or a nanny. I can barely get my beloved husband to rip himself away from the lawn three times a week to allow me a paltry hour at the YMCA. Therefore, I have discovered that in the war I am waging against my pudge, my post-partum fat cells are the Green Berets of my body. My muscles apparently did a short stint in the Texas Rangers then went on to Ivy League schools for the duration of the war.

Why do celebrities flit around on magazine covers baring their still-hot breasts and noncorresponding slim thighs three months after having babies? Why do they wear Manolos on the way home from the hospital? Why, oh why, do they look so fabulous plugging an empty pram on the streets of London SIX DAYS AFTER CHILDBIRTH????? Why do I not look like that, too??

I'll tell you why. My fat cells are serious about staying. After a teenage eating disorder and ten years of vegetarianism, my fat cells were freebasing freedom fries and then passing out cold on street corners. They got foods they never dreamed possible from their carrot-stick cell walls. And they liked it. And now, as I dutifully admit to the evil whores at WeightWatchers online each and every Laffy Taffy that crosses my lips, they are laughing. No matter what I do, they are winning. After all, they have been training for this moment all of their lives. Can someone please send me a spa weekend?