In a faux fur coat, one knee bent, arms flaring up, huge smile, I pose with my colleagues for our group Kindness Week photoshoot. strike at least four poses.
I am happy, standing next to my friends.
I am love.
I am kindness.
I am sitting at my desk, post run. open the email to see the pics of us.
We are a community, a family in a way–my healthiest to date.
Still
I see it, I can’t avoid it, front and center–that small bulge at my midsection
through my jeans
and
I’m off…
skiing down hill, catching speed, wind, ice:
does everyone see that?
have I gained inches back?
look at those thighs,
should I wear skinny jeans anymore,
all this because you have no control,
no way to stop your eating habits.
I should cut carbs, workout more.
I close the window, just as my phone lights up:
“omg so many stupid comments today about the halftime show! One of the male teachers said it was gross to see so much of Jlo’s crotch at 50. Others didn’t like that she pole danced.”
I rage a response, then hit call instead
because I’m too angry to type fast enough.
F-words flying out of my mouth, I respond.
cuz it’s not enough to hate on our bodies. no.
We
I have to hate myself, my body,
strive for perfection: white, thin, perfection.
have curves, but flat ass abs
be thin, look good,
but don’t wear anything that shows that body
have children, bounce back
fast
but be modest, dress modest, close your legs, cross your ankles,
What. The. Actually. Fuck.
I. Stop.
dig deep, remember:
rules were never meant to be followed,
not by fierce bitches.
