I scroll through Facebook, pausing at a picture of sun-tanned friends, in bikinis, together on the beach. Their kids are playing nearby in the sand. My fingers pinch the picture to zoom in on their tummies. How did they even have kids, I wonder. I see no signs of that!
I pause next at a photo of a friend, standing next to her husband. She’s wearing a sundress, her teeth are gleaming white. She could shake her hair and be in a commercial. It’s thick and wavy-it looks put-together even if it’s just tied in a knot on her head.
I see a comment that an acquaintance made about stubborn belly fat and how she’s gained 6 pounds from the beginning of cover, now weighing in at a whopping 120 pounds.
I read a thread on reddit where a guy is asking if he’s the asshole for wanting to dumb his girlfriend of 2 years because she now has love handles and he’s too grossed out to touch her around the waist.
I watch someone who has confided in me her struggles with anorexia post weekly side-by-sides of her weight loss while men comment with fire-emojis and women comment #goals! #perfection
Selfies everywhere. You are so beautiful. Look at you. Amazing. Gorgeous.
I would not even be able to give you an estimate of how many times a day I wish I were beautiful.
If you follow my facebook page, you may have noticed that last night we had a little chaos with a mouse loose in our house. I was chronicling it online so all of you could laugh at me, and my husband said, “Turn on your air drop. I have the BEST picture of the night.”
So he sends me this picture. My mom is standing on a chair. Avery is mid-run. I am standing on a chair, with the phone to my ear, making a horrified face like I’m screaming into the phone, while also bending down so the ceiling fan didn’t chop my head off.
And all I could think?
I am so fat. Look at my disgusting stomach.
Look at how it hangs there. How can anyone look at me?
You better believe I did NOT share that photo on social media.
This has been my thing for so long that it’s just become a part of me. I dream of being beautiful. Of being thin. Of having hair that isn’t so thin it shows my scalp. Of being someone who actually got to have style when it comes to fashion instead of “whatever fits from the plus size section at Kohl’s”.
Brian chronicles our summers on Instagram. He’s done it for years now, taking pictures all day long of our activities and posting them. Twice this week I have angrily grunted something in his direction for posting candid pictures of me. I cringe when I see them and demand them to be removed.
This morning in the shower, though, I really wondered. How would my life change if I were beautiful?
Would I get more superficial compliments? Sure.
Would my author page go viral if I had a thinner face and a thin body? Maybe-but for how long?
Would my husband love me more? Nope.
Would I gain more respect from anyone? Big nope.
It’s time for me to be done.
To be done desperately trying to explain to people how UNlazy I am, how I eat the same as you, exercise, yet I stay fat. Even now, I want to tell you, when you see me–I walk 3 miles every day! I dance with my kids and swim! I drink a protein shake for breakfast and limit my carbs! I’ve been to all the doctors!
She’s lying. She’s lazy. She’s setting a bad example for her kids. She’s this and she’s that.
I’m done wishing I could fit in with everyone else. Done carrying it around like even MORE weight.
I’m done wishing that men would notice me, hold doors for me, want me. I don’t notice them, LOL! My life is amazeballs and I wouldn’t trade it for the world! Isn’t it strange to think I want to be wanted just for funsies? To feel desirable.
Why do I spend so much time trying to be thin, fixating on it, worrying never endlessly? Sure, I’m trying to be healthy! But that’s not my main reason. Nope. It’s the shame I feel from others. The moral hierarchy where if you’re thin and beautiful your life is worth more.
Isn’t it about time I just enjoy what I’ve got? Dang, this all goes by so fast (minus perhaps the groundhog’s day feel of quarantine) and I think it’s about time I move on from all this self-loathing. It’s not a very beautiful quality, after all.