Lately I have come to realize that many of my posts are about weight, weight loss, after baby bodies and all that jazz, due to my newly-affirmed mission to get in shape- and I think that’s because dieting makes people angry and more prone to bitching. *waves* Hiiiii, yeah… that’s me. DEAL WITH IT!
All I ever see all over the internet is motivational posters about loving your body just the way it is. I understand the sentiment- and I suppose it’s good to be happy with how you look instead of being miserable, but… what if I don’t WANT to love my body?
Yes, you read that right. What if I don’t want to love the body I have right now? The one I acquired after child birth (’cause it sure as hell isn’t the same one I had before)? What if I simply don’t want to? Where’s the motivational poster for that?
No, I don’t BLAME my kids for this body… although I do reserve the right to emotionally blackmail them when they get older about it- KIDDING.. sorta…
It’s not exactly their fault that I grew them and stretched myself so large I resembled a sumo wrestler. Twice. In under 2 years. That’s my fault. And my skin’s fault for not being stretchy enough. Stupid skin. And my muscles for not being strong enough to return to their former flatness once my uterus emptied out. Stupid muscles. And kinda my fault for taking the whole “eating for two” thing literally. Whoops. Just because I’ve taken ownership of why this thing looks the way it looks doesn’t mean I HAVE to accept it.
These motivational posters that usually consist of a lake or a forest or a shadowy person with cheesy positive mantras sprawled across them told me I had to love my stretch marks, as they are battle wounds or like a tiger earning their stripes, even though I HATE stretchmarks and I am clearly not a damn tiger. Still, I said okay. I bought bigger shoes for my bigger feet and I didn’t complain. I bought new bras for my different boobs. I got rid of my “skinny” jeans because I accepted that my hips had been forever widened without so much as a peep- but then there is the pooch. The dreaded MOM pooch. It just sits there on the front of my stomach like it owns the place. Mocking me. Telling me that it’s never going to leave. I accepted my stretch marks, I own those things! But do I REALLY have to love this pooch?
The correct answer is NO. Just as it’s okay to accept and love our bodies as they are, it’s also okay NOT to love and accept them. I’m not bitter, or resentful, or angry at my kids. I don’t regret either kid or either pregnancy or even the weight gains. I also don’t look at this pooch as some kind of battle scar. It’s a pooch, and the bitch has got to go. I’m a work in progress. The pooch is NOT in my future. The rest of me can stay, though; yes, even the stretchmarks.
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