self-esteem

I am fat. When I say this, I'm describing one particular aspect of myself. I am not criticizing or judging, nor am I inviting other people to do so or asking for assurances that I'm pretty. In my mind fat is a descriptor like any other. It is not a judgment.

I have a very active life. I skied almost every other day this winter, and had an eight hour ski patrol shift every Saturday. I walk everywhere it is practical to do so and some places it is not. My kayaking season started today and will last until it is too cold to do anything but look forward to skiing. My fat body can do all of these things as part of my routine.

If you ask my opinion on cosmetic breast implants, I will go off on an angry rant about how ridiculous it is that women with perfectly healthy, symmetrical, functional bodies are emotionally worked into a physical standard so unrealistic that they go stuffing saline solution into their busts. Ask me if I'd ever get them? Don't bet your life on it, unless a car wreck severs my left breast tomorrow.

...But what am I thinking in the dark, alone, at home, when there are no crowds, no one to debate with, and no one to stand tall-and-feminist-strong for?

I'm looking at my breasts and aching, Wouldn't it just be so much easier TO get implants? Wouldn't I /feel/ so much better- wouldn't it just be a total load-off? And in moments like these, when I fantasize about what it would be like to have fake plastic breasts, I realize how much energy I spend on NOT having fake plastic breasts: because the idea of having them sounds like the suggestion of releasing a cramped muscle. It sounds like, Hey, you don't have to hold your breath anymore.

When I imagine all the things I could do with the energy I now spend helping myself feel good about my natural breasts, I feel like I could /learn a new language/, /write a book/, /get fit/.

I love to wear fishnets thigh-highs and garters, corsets, pencil skirts, etc. in public. Andrea and I were discussing this the other day--when men honk at me and make obscene overtures, should this prompt me to swallow myself up in baggy clothes for a while?

I think not. I love wearing clothing that boosts my self-esteem.

But I do have to ask myself why I am wearing the clothes I wear; i.e., "Am I wearing this to be provocative?" Because if I'm trying to provoke, I'm doing a swell job, and should expect the results I am indeed receiving.

Just a thought. What do you lovely grrls/bo

I like how I look, mostly. I have a pretty face, really good eyes, and my hair is gorgeous when I actually take the time to maintain it. I don’t like my teeth though. They’re big and I have an overcrowded mouth and my gums show a lot. But then you go down and there’s my shoulders. I have a bit more muscle in them than I’d like because I danced for a long time and developed the wrong muscles. Rather than working my back to hold my arms up, I used my shoulders. It makes for an interesting neckline though and even if they don’t belong there I’m sort of fond of them. Then there’s my boobs…those awkward things that seem to weigh me down but still make a lovely shape. I just recently found out that I was indeed a size C convinced I was an A. I don’t know if it was denial or plain lack of common sense. I didn’t want big boobs but now I know I have ‘em and they’ve grown on me—no pun intended. My rib cage is a bit wider than I like and with that layer of muscle that’s just turned into flab but I’m not too self-conscious about it. I mean…I’m relatively skinny but still with proportions. I don’t like it all the time. Sometimes I wish I was more fully developed and other times (usually in dance) I wish I was skinny and flexible. But that doesn’t get to me too much. None of that gets to me. I like to think I’ve always been relatively comfortable with how I look. I mean I’m pretty. I don’t mean to sound stuck-up about it, I just mean…I’d be a whiny pick fool to not think it. I’ve never had many problems with my upper body.