Sadly, after reviewing the photos of the day, turns out this was not the case. Rather than the sexy, Italian looking (I felt continental, ok?), chic vision of elegance I saw gazing back in the mirror, there, in the photographs, lurked my incredibly unwelcome alter ego, Thunder Thighs. Ten Tonne Tessa.
And unfortunately, I have not imagined it. It's there. In print. Photographic evidence. Can't argue with that.
(I know what you're thinking now, so no, you will not find a single picture of the ample quads of which I speak on this blog. Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to let you have a good gawp and poke and giggle at said rolls? I wasn't born yesterday, you scavengers of human misery.)
Before now, I've played at the edges. "Oh poor me, I've been all pregnant and I really should do something about it." It was funny. I couldn't really be bothered. I had excuses. And now after seven months, I've run out.
All those times since labour that I have poured myself into ill fitting jeans and convinced myself that they must have shrunk in the wardrobe since last worn (like all jeans do...). All those times I chucked on a top and it has pinched around the arms. All those times I've poured my feet into slip-ons and slings backs and reasoned that I must still be carrying pregnancy fluid. Because she was lurking underneath every garment.
It shouldn't be a surprise, what with the way I have chowed down on every sugary, salty, static thing that I can fit in my taut, ballooning sausage fingers. If I had only been willing to see the cellulite spattered receipts I call bum cheeks, I would have found proof of my prolonged period of postnatal greed.
So today I went for a run. And I meant every step. I really want to fix my body. And it's a good job. Because half way through my torturous, agonising, exhausting run, at the point when I couldn't be any further from home, God decided to test me.
He sent not just April showers. He sent big, sharp, torrential hail. Thanks for that.
Hmm. This is going to be hard....