“You look so good!”
“How much weight have you lost?”
“You’re the incredible shrinking woman!”
“I wish I could do it!”
“I’m jealous.”
“I’m impressed!”
These are all words of my past. To my chagrin, the not-so-distant past. Nine months ago, I competed in a National Physique Committee Bikini Competition. It was my first competition, and my first real attempt at athleticism (outside of fifth grade basketball). I trained for eight months and took third place in my class of five. Not phenomenal by any means, but not shabby. And hell, I freaking stood on stage in a tiny bikini and let people judge my body—having the confidence to do that—that’s a win! Today, I’ve found 35 of the 45 pounds I lost and have regained my hatred for my body.
I have always had body image issues. Always. I remember being in sixth grade, as a size two, and thinking my thighs were fat. In high school, I’d wet the waistband and the thighs of my pants with a washcloth so they’d stretch out and my chub wouldn’t be so obvious. In college, I cried when I shopped and wasn’t where I wanted to be physically. I don’t know where it all started or where it came from, or why I continued (okay fine, continue) the negative thinking about myself and my body. Frankly, I don’t care. Maybe I should. Screw it. The past is the past, and my fat ass isn’t going back there. This is a new day, and now that I’ve had my Popeye’s chicken dinner, I’m ready to move forward!
No comments:
Post a Comment