I had one of those crushing moments last week where someone carelessly reminded me that I’m fat.
There I was, perfectly content, then WHAM!
Oh yeah, stop being happy, you’re a big fat fatty. You’re not allowed to be happy because you don’t fit into single digit pants. You cow.
Oh, and just to top it off, you now get to feel guilty about eating anything because you’re fat and fat people have to eat in shame.
Then I thought, fuck that.
I was having a great time before that incident. I wasn’t thinking about my weight. I wasn’t thinking about it because it didn’t matter.
My weight doesn’t matter.
And anyone who thinks it does isn’t worth my time.
I used to tell people I’ve had a weight problem for most of my life. But that isn’t true at all. My weight isn’t the problem. The problem is I’ve let other people convince me it’s a problem. I’ve let other people tell me I’m not normal. I’ve tortured myself for years over my weight, and for what? To make who happy? Certainly not myself.
So even though resolutions aren’t my thing, I’m making one this year. Just one.
I’ll like myself this year.
I’ll embrace my chunky thighs, my pudgy stomach and my chipmunk cheeks. I won’t weigh myself and be forced to live by the numbers on a scale. I’ll love my body and treat it right. But I won’t be ashamed when I eat pizza or cake or half a bag of mini Snickers. Sometimes a girl just needs a lot of Snickers.
There’s a lot about me to like, and none of it has to do with the size of my clothes or how much I weigh. Maybe it took me a while to figure that out, but here I am. Better late than never. And I have to say, I like myself a hell of a lot more already.
