“Can you tell me all the things you like about my body?” I ask softly. After an afternoon of shopping and feeling like nothing I tried on looked good on me, my self-esteem has fallen and I am trapped in the upward comparison loop.
“What do you like about your body?” He flips the question on its head, knowing the reclaimed confidence will have to come from me. I love this man.
What do I like about my body?
My body that has carried me on this Earth for 33 years and five months.
My body that is a bit achey this morning (Do I need a new pillow? Do I just need to exercise? Are teachers destined to hold all their stress in their necks?).
What do I like about this body of mine?
I like my hands — their ability to type fast, write neatly, knit complicated patterns to create clothes and accessories my loved ones and I can wear.
I like my legs — they’ve always been strong — their ability to run half marathons, walk 20,000 steps in a day of sightseeing, squat and sit and lunge with proper form.
I like my feet and ankles — they’re a bit bony, and my sister has always hated my longer toes, but I like them, and my feet take me everywhere. How different life would be without my feet!
I like my belly button — how, when I was a kid, it used to look more like an “innie-outie,” I called it, and now is a bit more of an “innie.”
I like my smaller chest — I can run without it hurting, go bra-less whenever, and wear a lot of different types of tops.
I like my hair — it’s thick and curly and it always air dries well. I have natural highlights, blonds and reds, and not many gray hairs yet.
I like my eyes — the blue-gray-green of them, how they change based on what I’m wearing. I love how they take in so many details as they observe this world I live in.
So why, when I look in the mirror at a shop, try on an article of clothing not made for this unique body of mine, do I blame my body instead of the store? The store who only designs for one type of female body? (Juxtapose this with Gi and I accompanying Jason to Suit Supply, where he explains how he’ll try on a suit, they’ll fit him, and then they’ll make it to his exact measurements.)
I don’t have the answers, and the ending of this slice got interrupted in real time by my dog throwing up (I think she swallowed a hairball, ha!), so it will have to end here.
And when that little voice inevitably makes herself heard, I’ll try to remember all the things I love about this body of mine.
Writing With Abandon 
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