It’s been a while since you’ve worried about your thighs.
Huh. You’re right.
Think you should be?
Nah, it’s been kind of nice.
And it’s true. It’s been weeks since I’ve worried about any of my body parts, which have (historically) been too big, too small, too flabby, too muscular, or too masculine. At some point, I looked at myself naked in the mirror and thought, So what if you don’t look like you did when you were 22? Anyone who’s looking for a 22-year-old body will find someone else. This is yours and you shouldn’t feel ashamed — for Pete’s sake, you’ve had two children! And that was that. Haven’t worried since, the urges for plastic surgery have miraculously disappeared, and I feel fabulous. (Of course, it’s also been weeks since I’ve shaved my legs and even longer since anyone has seen me naked — unless you count the time I decided to wash the dishes after getting out of the bath and realized half-way through that I’d left the blinds open, but we won’t talk about that…)
Was it really just as easy as accepting myself all along? Why have I wasted 17 years of my life thinking the way to feel loved was walking through the hot coals of dysfunctional relationships? Will this ever feel like anything short of a surprise? The next time someone says You’re stunningly attractive will I be able to simply say, Thank you?
My whole life feels like a miniseries in which even I am waiting to see what happens next. Hmm. I wonder what it will be. I’m guessing, though, that it’s not going to be yet another melodrama.