Can I say something?

I mean, of course I can.  It’s my blog.

I don’t hate my body.

I may want to lose 20 lbs or more, the post-baby FUPA may get in the way of comfortably buttoning some styles of pants, & I do wish my arms looked like they did when I was 16.  But I don’t HATE my body.

Growing up, I did hate my body but only because people misused the word “big” to describe my height.  ”Oh, you’re so big!” was okay when I was five, but not when I was thirteen.  Those weird PE classes when we learned to ballroom dance & the girls outnumbered the boys?  Yeah, I always had to be a “boy” because I was “big.”  Which is why I’m pretty amazing at leading a fox trot.  I hated my height because it meant I was shoved to the back of every picture, every line, every assembly.  When I was eight, I started getting boobs & wore my first bra.  I’ll never forget the first time the boys unsnapped it from over my shirt while the librarian read us a book.  I cried in the bathroom, hating myself that I was the only girl in our class to wear (& need) a bra.  When I was fourteen, my mother & I took my old cheerleading uniforms to the tailor in hopes of letting out any length to help me be more comfortable in the skirt – they managed to let out 1/4″ in a skirt.  It barely covered my rump.  I had hips, where other girls stayed straight.  I cried almost every night, wondering why I couldn’t be “small” or “cute.”  When I made the Varsity squad at sixteen, they special-ordered me uniforms because they’d never had anyone so “big” on the squad before.

Like that time my cheerleading coach referred to me as a “brute” in our varsity awards ceremony in front of every student athlete & my squad never let me live it down.

This, my friends, is how “big” & “brutish” I was as a teenager:

(please check & respect the whispy bangs, brought to you by the late 90′s)

(also?  I never moonlighted as a hooker. The flapper gig is me dressed up for “Gatsby Day.”)

For years, I refused to buy anything that had a heel higher than an inch.  I didn’t want to be “big.”

In college, I finally found confidence to love myself.  It had a lot to do with my sorority & the girls in there being beautiful & making me feel like I belonged.  It had more to do with a full scholarship that made me a big cat in the business school.  I bought my first pair of real high heels.  I dated a boy that took me dancing & told me I was beautiful, then I met a man that told me he loved every inch of curve on my body, as well as the curves in my heart.  (I married that man.) I wore an incredible dress down the aisle & to this day, I love how happy & healthy I look in our wedding pictures.  To be all Days of Thunder on you, my curves were downright dangerous that day.

I wasn’t a size 2, but I didn’t feel “big” – I felt beautiful.  I had a breast reduction, which helped clothes fit properly.  I ran a mile straight in under 10 minutes for the first time in my life.  My body nourished two lives, one briefly & the other one sleeps peacefully across the hall as I type this.  It chases that boy around the backyard, lifts him into the swing, carries him on it’s back when he’s tired.  It rarely fails me or that devilishly handsome man in the bedroom.  It hugs tired clients, distraught with worry, & then comes home to wash away the days grime from both floors & child.

I love that body. MY body.

I remember each one of those stretch marks, from ballet class to childbirth.  That weird lumpy hip fat spare tire?  I think it’s a fair price to pay for motherhood.  At 28, I may not be ready to give in to gravity, but I am also not meant to look like a college co-ed.

So when I’m frustrated that my body gains & loses & gains again when I’m counting every bite in my mouth & sending my leftover birthday cake down to my brother, I have to take a deep breath in & remember that both me & my body are more than the number on the scale.  I remember that it’s more than chugging Slimfast, but rather nightly walks with my family & taking home half my meal.  I still yearn for a smaller waist, a smaller number on the scale, comfort with the lights on at night.  I hope to stave off the Type II diabetes that runs rampant in my family & instill healthy living in my family.

But at the end of the day, I am more than a number on the scale.  I am not an insecure thirteen-year-old girl.  This is the only body I have & by God, I’m going to love it.