I have spent the majority of my life underweight, and striving to gain an ever elusive 5-10 more pounds.
Suddenly, there's no need to strive for that anymore--because a magic 15 pounds appeared on it's own.
Which is why my fucking clothes don't fit.
I love this picture because she knows she is beautiful as she is, and that knowledge makes her beautiful.
She doesn't want to be nipped and tucked into someone elses idea of beauty to fit some popular mold of what is attractive.
She is who she is, and she's happy with it.
I respect and admire that.
So why exactly can't I, who nearly fits inside those little marker lines, feel the same as she does?
It's not that I don't think that we should take care of ourselves and be in good shape, I do.
Taking care of myself is something that hasn't been a big priority for me in my life, with the exception of my teen years, which were admittedly vain.
Somewhere between life and kids, I decided that taking care of myself meant achieving more that 2 hours of uninterpreted sleep a night, eating enough to not fade away completely (though my success at that was debatable at times), and consuming enough coffee to stay awake for an entire day.
Over the course of the last year, taking care of myself has become one of my priorities. I eat well, make time for that extra shower that just couldn't happen when the kids were small, workout consistently, and am probably in better shape than I've been for years.
These are good things, you say?
Here's the catch:
I don't take care of myself because I like my body and I think that it's worth taking care of--I do it because I don't like my body, and I don't want my husband to wake up one day and decide that he feels the same way as I do about it.
Why is it so extremely difficult for me to take the simplistic and healthy view?