My Body Serves A Purpose, And Looking Perfect Isn't It
"I don't know what my body is for other than taking my head from room to room."
My arms are for holding the people I love as tightly as I can, and for not quite knowing what to do with them at concerts. They're for doing the wave at sports games and for doing push-ups at workout classes. I can't be bothered if they "look big" in pictures.
My stomach rolls when I bend over to pick up babies and puppies, and it houses all of the delicious foods I eat with the people that I love. I can't be bothered if it looks "unflattering" at certain angles.
My ass is for sitting in car or airplane seats to go on new adventures, or for dropping it low when my song comes on. It is for shaking while I dance and looking good in a new pair of jeans. I can't be bothered if it isn't perfectly sculpted.
My legs are for walking down beautiful beaches and paths and biking for charity or for fun and for jumping and swimming and running up the stairs at night to leap into bed. I can't be bothered if they have some "undesirable" cellulite.
My body is not perfect. It is not a painting. It is not a sculpture. It is a means to a destination. It is a house for my heart and my mind. It serves a purpose, and it moves and shifts to support those purposes. And I fucking refuse to enjoy my life less because of the way I look while I'm living it.
I refuse to see a double chin in a photo that I was candidly smiling with my whole face in as ugly. I refuse to think it is shameful when my stomach rolls when I'm bent over from laughing so hard. I refuse to value my experiences less because of the way I look like while I experience them.
You only get one life. What's the point of hating the body that walks you through it?