And so it happens, even for girls like me who write so much about body-confidence, self-love and redefined notions of beauty: days like today when I stand in front of the mirror and hate the way I look.
I’m having an exceptionally fat day — actually, it’s been a few days. And not just the sort that feeling fat that comes of PMSing, or a slightly off, water-retention day.
I know my body and it’s feeling, well, fat. Not in a I’m-so-comfortable-with-how-I-look way, but feeling like a giant, wobbling mass and knowing that my nifty dresses and little skirts don’t look as good on me now.
It seems, trulymadlydeeply, that everyone I know is looking better than they ever have — svelte and fit and toned — and I am only getting larger and flabbier by the same proportions. I am the new marshmallow man.
And all the self-empowering, love-your-body, confident, self-loving posts that I’ve been writing just aren’t speaking at all to me today.
I hate that I’m so far away from that slimmer, spectacularly fit shape that I used to be. I hate that my clothes feel more snug. I hate the way my reflection flubs back at me. I hate that even though I feel really fit from all the exercising and living well, my body has decided to do something all on its own that doesn’t reflect any of this.
More than anything, I hate the fact that I feel the need to be thinner just so I can feel better about myself. I am mad at myself that at the heart of all this angst, I am the biggest fat-shamer of my own life.
So I’m looking at happy photos of cuddly, joyful Hilda today and trying to make myself feel better.