I’m plus sized and that’s ok. Not something you usually hear someone say, but I’ve been fighting my body for 31 years and its finally time to accept who I am. With the exception of when I was very young, I’ve always been fat. No, it’s not healthy and is that something I’m working to change? Yes. Am I willing to do it 5x a week? Fuck no. I’ve got beers with Red, D&D, knitting, volunteering, not to mention various and sundry things that really tickle my pickle that get in the way of gym time.
I know that most of the time I write about bad dates and the coping with the loss of loved ones, which, I hope, make you laugh and hug your family, respectively, or not, whatever floats your boat. And honestly in light of tragedies happening around the world, or in your own backyard, this may seem like a waste of a post, but so be it. I’ve dealt with the death of a parent, far earlier than I should have, been through an emotionally abusive relationship, made friends that are closer than family, found a job that is willing to accept and nurture me (seriously, why else would I hang around for 8 years?), have become the ball busting bitch I always wanted to be, and yet, I always hung on to the hope I would be a size 8. That’s not going to happen.
I mean, if I forgot all the beer (maybe I’ve had a few Lagunitas), avoid everything except detox soup (wut, there is pecorino romano in my fridge), and worked out 6 days a week (how could I fight the motherfucking dragons?!), it could happen. But that’s not me. I’m a size 16 with cellulite. And that’s ok..
Yeah, I work toward better health by eating better; the gym is still a pain in the ass, but I’ve been at least once this week and it’s only Tuesday! Know what I did instead? Made lunch to take to work, talked to my Dad and one of my best friends, hugged my other best friend when she was hurting, had an epic doggie date, worked on the hat for a friend’s baby who was recently diagnosed. Would I replace any of that with gym time? Hell no. Do I respect people who go to the gym more than I? Of course. They are much better disciplined than I, honestly I’m happy when I don’t have a hamper full of dirty laundry.
But, I digress, I came to this realization when I was sitting on my kitchen floor, calling my dog (she was running away because she thought it was nail clipping time) and looked at my legs. My fat, fuchsia clad legs. And I realized, this is what I’ve got, this is me. And I’d better love the body that I’ve got, because as far as I know, full body transplants don’t exist. And really, would I want one? No, this body has seen me through so much, and quite well, I might add. The least I can do is love it. It’s not perfect and I do want to get healthier, but that doesn’t mean I have to hate my body in the mean time. If anything it means I should love it more.
That’s it, nothing deeper than that. Love the body you have, because it’s the only one you’ve got, and really in the grand scheme of things it’s not that bad. More importantly? Love the people who love you. Not the creepy stalker loves, but the people who make you the best version of yourself, because that’s what life is about.