I hate the way I look at the minute. I don’t like the pooch of a belly which I can’t seem to shift. I hate that my boobs are nearly flat. I hate that my skin, as a result of 2 ginormous pregnancies, has been stretched beyond elasticity. I hate that the lower half of my body is wobbly as hell. I hate that nothing is firm and pert, like they used to be.
It’s something I’m “supposed to accept”. Something I’m supposed to “wear like a badge of honour”. Supposed to be proud of the results of “becoming a mom”.
I wouldn’t mind so much if I hadn’t bothered to make efforts to get back to looking “presentable”, in my eyes. I’m very aware now that there are things about my body which, plainly put, I cannot “fix” without surgery. That bugs me. A lot. I might not be the healthiest person out there, but I’m sure as hell I’m no sloth.
The thing is, it’s amazing what you can hide or tuck away once you put your clothes on. Obviously I’m not wanting to walk around naked, though if I had a figure worth doing so which I was happy with, I TOTALLY WOULD. But I would just like to be able to look in the mirror at myself and not feel slightly repulsed by the body of an overweight 90 year old staring back at me. Especially, ESPECIALLY, when I still only feel twenty something in my head.
Ahhhhhh in my head. Y’know, where everything is wonderful.
The sad thing is, I spend a shit load of time working through photos of my clients, admiring how genuinely gorgeous they look. Beautiful, shining, radiant faces, figures with curves in all the right places, looking confident as anything. And so I feel like some kind of fraud when I’m there trying to convince them of this ridiculous beauty they have, which they can’t seem to see. And then I look in the mirror and hate what I see.
I’ve been hooping like crazy, and my Osteo appointments have been contributory to me wanting to be (even more) active. I’m still supposed to be taking things easy until my core is strong, but impatience overwhelms.
I want to be slimmer, and toned, and not wobbly, and pert, and not saggy.
I can’t afford to become a fitness freak, but I’ve noticed I’ve started watching numbers more often. Watching how many calories I burn, observing how many calories I take in, become more aware of my movements. It’s all good, I like that I make efforts. Not as much as some, but still.
I miss how I used to look. I miss it dearly. I miss it almost obsessively. Short of scoring on the lottery, I won’t be like I was before. This bothers me.
Just accept it? I guess so. But not without some kind of half-hearted fight.