Go Ahead Punk...

Kim shared a brave, thought provoking post about body image over at her blog Mom Tried It today. She took pictures of herself in a bikini--and then posted them online without using Photoshop to give herself a tan or erase her stretch marks first. And you know what--she still looks beautiful. Because real women do have flaws, little things about themselves that they wish could be smoother, flatter, fuller, longer, leaner. But at what point do those little wishes turn us into self-loathing monsters who think that because we fall short of the air brushed model on the cover of Cosmo we are somehow less? And what meaningful parts of ourselves are lost in our endless quest to reach such an impossible goal?

I don't have an answer really. Call it a healthy self esteem, apathy, or perhaps an over-inflated view of myself, but on the whole I've not been one to spend a lot of time dwelling on the negative aspects of my body. Would I love to have normal feet instead of these fat, duck feet that never fit into the really cute shoes? Sure, but unless some miracle of science unfolds, I don't think I'll be singing about my Louboutins any time soon. Do I wish my hair weren't 45% grey already at the age of 31? Of course, but it's nothing a visit to the salon can't fix. So why worry about it? I'll just be grateful to have hair. Would it be nice to have eyes that were a bit larger and more in scale with the roundness of my face? Heck yea. But what my eyes lack in size, they make up for in color. In fact, I think my blue "husky" eyes are one of the reasons Andy fell in love with me way back when. So rather than knock them for being inferior, I think I'll thank them instead.

I've found when I don't spend energy beating my body up for being too pale, too short, too soft and focus instead on appreciating the life that it's allowed me to lead, I am a happier person. 

Sometimes people who hear that I'm at the gym 6 days a week think that I must be completely body and diet obsessed. They seem shocked when I can't tell them the number of calories that are in the burger I'm about to eat or when I show no interest in joining their endless discussions about how fat they feel.  I don't exercise as a punishment, at least not anymore. I exercise to feel stronger, so that when I have to carry two 30lb squiggling kids up three flights of stairs, I can.

  I exercise because despite the fact that I'm covered in sweat, my hair's a mess, and my face is beet red, I often feel the most beautiful when I'm pushing my body to its limits. To work harder. To do more.

 And I exercise to thank my body for carrying me through this life. Because that's what all those scars and imperfections show: That I have not only lived, but lived well.

Oh, and one more thing. I exercise to be ready

just in case some recently reawakened zombie

ever decides to cross my path.

Go ahead punk, make my day.




This post is also linked up at Delicious Ambiguity.