stop/start

I mean everything I say about how size doesn’t matter, how no woman exists only to be looked at, how beauty is subjective and is never, ever a requirement for being treated like a human being. I love women, and I think our freedom from body hatred is an essential part of being healthy and whole and happy. I believe these things from the bottom of my soul.

So why can’t I cut myself any slack? Why do I weigh myself obsessively every day, sometimes twice a day? Why do I feel guilty for liking a glass of wine every night, for sometimes wanting dessert after dinner? Why have I gone months at a time without eating sugar or starch only to lose ten or fifteen pounds that I know I’ll put back on? Why have I spent so many hours of my life berating myself for being a person who, when it comes down to it, just likes to enjoy herself?

Right now, my weight stays solidly within the 192-194 pound range. I am 5’9” and a size 12. I’m technically overweight. But you know what? Life is too fucking short. And I’ll tell you what: I work out three to four times a week, hard. The actual shape of my body is sexier and better than it’s ever been, and I have finally discovered a real sense of my own style. And I should be able to enjoy these things. I shouldn’t think, “I look good for a chubby person.” I should think, “I look good, and it is only for me, not for anyone else.”

Because it is. There is pleasure in well-cut clothing, the right bra, a good pair of shoes. There’s also pleasure in the half a bottle of champagne I just drank. I work hard to be the best I can be at everything, and I need to accept that my best is good enough. That the true source of whatever beauty I have is the love I have for my friends and family and husband, the passion I have for my writing, my deep thirst for knowledge. I am awesome, and until I really believe that it doesn’t matter who does or doesn’t say it, because I have to be able to hear it.

I’m not saying I’m feeling this full-time yet, but I’m trying. That’s a start, at least.