Day 59- Body Hate and other Jiggly Bits of Life

Today has been a pretty rough day- if you live in the burning file cabinets of my spaced out mind. 

As if it wasn’t enough that I was taking care of my grandma today on zero sleep and stressing over finances and car trouble…

I like so many dumb Americans, hate my body. HATE IT.

Sometimes, on occasion, I allow myself to get caught up in loving my body; at times I feel so alive in my witchy “womaness.” I can be so connected with the mother earth. I am her child. She gave me endless curves; thick, dark hair; and a pair of sea blue eyes and long, long legs. I have full lips and soft skin. I have strength in my arms and a healthy, beating heart.

I have all the right materials.

 

Buuuut most of my time in front of the mirror, is spent breaking down each part and analyzing it slab by jiggling, fat slab. And those beautiful five minutes where I’m swept up in my own beauty are crushed under the boot of, “WHY IS MY STOMACH SO SQUISHY?” 

(Hint: Potatoes)

Now, It does occur to me from time to time, that I am incredibly fortunate. 

My problems include, chubbly bits, student loan/medical debt, a minimum wage job and a grandmother in remission of CNS lymphoma.

Besides my grandmother’s illness, all my problems are fixable.

So please tell me why the sight of my underarm flab can send me into fits of despair over my general worthlessness. 

As if the entire worth of my person can be summed up by the inches measuring my waist. 

I haven’t graduated college yet. My grandmother is sick. I don’t have enough money to buy groceries or pay my medical bills.

Well:

Image

 

Don’t even get me started on my feelings on my upward vicinity. One wrong look in the mirror and my mind spirals into images of a backward shaped hunchback- all I am is boobs- and my body looks awkward, wilting under their weight and size, and my head looks like pea on a big, blubbery mound. 

The shape of my body is made even more ridiculous by my tiny, inverted butt. Basically, my mind concludes that I am a walking, talking, giant letter P.

 

 

Does it seem ridiculous to anyone else, about how much I think about my body?

Besides stating the obvious about other people in the world having legitimate problems such as civil wars, and high infant mortality rate, and poverty, and lack of educations, and AIDs and rape…

…And the fact that is so unfair and ludicrous that I am having trouble stopping myself from eating everything in sight and on site, while there are people in the world dying from hunger.

Yes. That’s ridiculous. 

But besides that, it is ridiculous that I spend such an inordinate amount of time cursing my body for everything it lacks. (Which to put this in perspective for you is: thinness.)

I’m thinking of it constantly, but I’m not ever thinking of all the sick, awesome shit that it can do! 

 

For instance, if I wanted to eat myself to near death, day after day, year after year, making my arteries basically into conduites of french fries and rocky road ice cream- I could.

But after all those years and years of aiding to world wide potato scarcity- I could then decide to take up salads and running- and little by little, my body would build BRAND NEW arteries to bypass those vein latrines of salt and fat. 

That’s pretty fucking cool.

 

So while I’m thinking about how weak, and ugly and awful my body is, I am totally missing out on how awesome and capable it already is.

No, I’m not Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

In all my desperate dreams to be the hot dementor of Roller Derby- I still don’t have freakish strength or combat proficiency.

I’m certainly not going to be modeling for anyone not interested in jiggly bits where jiggly bits aren’t “supposed” to be, anytime soon.

But if I chose… 

I could make my body into dangerous weapon.

I can make it into a guru bendy thing.
I can make it slutty, make it tap dance, make it climb trees and howl like a monkey.

My body wasn’t born with set limitations. (Yes, if it wasn’t for physics and law enforcement… I’d be unstoppable!)

The point is, the more time I spend thinking about how I hate my body and how it doesn’t measure up to “beautiful” bodies, the less time I spend capitalizing on all that it already is, and all that it can be.

Already, my body allows me to dance and to smile. It allows me to chatter away on walks down the driveway with my grandmother.

It allows me to work, and to study.

It allows me to sleep anytime and through anything. 

It allows me to feel the rain and the sunshine and to drink hot cocoa and hold a book. 

My body is fucking awesome. 

It allows me to hold my boyfriend and pull his hair and kiss his dimple… and also to attack him with Nerf guns.

It allows me to stare up at the stars or behold gritty street art.

It allows me to kick around downtown in my hometown, or throughout the streets of Paris.

I can sing, I can hear, I can breath.

My body can be strong, or weak.

I repeat, my body will never be what I want it to be if I’m constantly thinking about what it isn’t.

So here is to day one of a new thinking: my body as capable. 

My body regardless of what others think of it.

MINE ALL MINE. The only one I get.

Mine with red lipstick on and in 5 inch heels; mine in my TMNT t-shirt from Goodwill; mine breaking out with acne; mine filled with fries and beer; mine 5 pounds overweight; and still mine 5 pounds underweight; mine on the treadmill; mine on the couch.

The point is, it’s MINE ALL MINE. 

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