Gee, is it Thursday already? How did I go this long without writing anything? I'm trying to be good about that. I'm trying to write every day. The more I do it, the better it feels. But it's easy not to write. It's easier not to do anything. It's easy to be a big fat f*ck. Excuse the expression. It's always just flowed so nicely.
Not that I am a big fat f*ck, thought I have been feeling overweight and unhappy with my body for some time now. How long is some time? Oh... three years. Three years. Ever since I moved here. How the hell does someone go for three years without liking her body, the very baseline of her self-esteem? Well, it's not nice, I've got to tell ya. But I'm being honest. I'm owning up to it. Here it is: I have body image issues. Most people look at my body and think it looks fine. I look slim enough; I have an attractive figure... Ironically, I've gotten more positive feedback about my ass recently than ever before. Me, I look at my body and think "My ass is too big. I can't fit into my pants anymore. My pants are literally ripping. I... can't... fit into my clothes. I've gained weight."
Moving to California, of all things, actually decreased the activity in my daily lifestyle. I've gained weight and I've kept it. It was a little slow, and then the last six months or so really pushed me over the line. How much weight am I talking about here? Thirty, forty... sixty pounds? No. Not even ten. So help me God I'm being held hostage by 9 pounds. Nine pounds is all it takes to drag my esteem through the gutter. What the hell is that. I'm an intelligent woman. I'm a sane woman. I know that's ridiculous. I know that's... unreasonable. But I can't help how I feel. And I feel... unattractive. And I feel upset, because so many of my clothes don't fit me. And I feel sad because I want nice clothes. I want cute little dresses. I want to wear fun skirts. And guess what? I've got a closet full of them. But I can't wear them. They don't fit. They look horrible. And - you know what? At this point I'm not even sure that they do look horrible. But I feel like they look horrible. Because I feel horrible. I'm being held hostage by nine freaking pounds.
I've read a lot of really interesting things over the years about women and their bodies. My favorite is probably the piece "Size Six: The Western Woman's Harem" by Fatema Mernissi, published by Ode magazine in August 2003. (Check it out: http://www.odemagazine.com/doc/6/size_six_the_western_women_s_harem/) But all the well-written and really, really sensible articles you could read don't change what's inside you. If you've been drilled since birth that thin is in - and if in your lifetime skinny, flat dimensions became really ideal - it takes enormous strength and flawless sense of self to embrace your body and love it for each and every glorious inch and pound.
I have a lot of glorious inches. I may have some trouble loving them all today, but so help me, I'm going to love them all before I die and hopefully much sooner. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. I feel a revolution coming on!
I am beautiful! My body is beautiful! My cellulite is b-
Ah, let's not get carried away here. One inch at a time.