*Language disclaimer* Ain’t holding back with this one…
Maybe you read my post about embracing my body? Perhaps you took a few minutes to review my thoughts on what its been like changing my disordered eating? Well, if you follow my Instagram account (@the.tall.mom), you know I put all those big feelings to the test when I took my family to Mexico for spring break.
So…lets take a moment and get real about how I handled *dun dun dun* the BEACH.
So there I was…essentially in my skivvies for all the world to see. There I stood in front of the mirror, seconds away from a day at the beach…in swimwear.
I saw it all for what it is.
While I believe the body I’m wearing these days would be classified as attractive according to general cultural standards—at least while clothed, it is not a body similar (at all) to those seen on 99.9% of magazine covers. Nor is its likeness featured in mass marketing for items such as…oh…let’s say…swimsuits.
This tall mom hasn’t been counting calories or putting in much time at the gym. I don’t have magic tanning lotion to smooth out my cellulite and erase my scars. Nor do I have superpowers to instantly tone my squishy parts and defy the pull of gravity where things hang a little low.
And there remains a voice in my head who still attempts to shame me for wearing this body. Belly. Saddle Bags. Rolls. Dimples. Fat. Heavy. Lazy. Gross.
Yes, The Head Wench is still alive.
Though…she has weakened. Because if anyone these days is going to starve as means to an end…it’s going to be her. The time, energy, and thought power I’ve been withholding from The Head Wench has been used to feed a new voice in my head.
Our new roommate is a kick ass kind of woman who gives no fucks and focuses on how to find MORE not be less. More laughs. More adventures. More fond memories. More truth. More rest. More blessedly messy LIFE. She wants MORE and isn’t bashful about it.
These days, she is the voice I hear most often…”Breathe slow and deep, and LOVE through it all,” she reminds. “Strong woman, you’re ready. Go. Get. It.” She encourages.
When she first moved in, I wasn’t sure I could trust her. Could I believe the wild stories she told?
With time…and practiced listening, I realized…her strongest attribute is an uncanny ability to point out what should be so obvious—a reckless telling of the truth.
There is a beach waiting. Your children are calling. That cold drink that is growing warm while you hesitate…it is all a gift…for YOU. Go get it.
So, I listened. And…I went.
And yes, there were sizzling coeds on the beach with rocking bodies. Hell, there were sizzling fifty year olds on the beach with rocking bodies. They looked INCREDIBLE. I noticed them, admired their amazing human forms.
The Head Wench struck, “You don’t look like that.”
Kick Ass Woman simply replied, “That’s okay.”
Kick Ass Woman then told me this story:
There is no requirement to LOOK a certain way in order to experience joy whilst in swimwear.
I know. Crazy. Straight up bonkers, right?!?
But there I was…on the beach…with the hot bodies… AND…there was room for us ALL to play, and laugh, and live, and love.
And while I know there was one man who looked at me and thought, “hot mamma,” I wasn’t concerned with whether or not I qualified as a hot body. I don’t know what the other beach goers thought of my bod. I didn’t ask. And quite frankly, I didn’t (and I don’t) give a fuck. Not one.
I was too busy laughing with my friends and family, watching my daughter fly board, convincing the cabana boy to hook up my playlist to the resort speakers, and meeting new people, both real (in the lounge chair next to me) and fictional (in the 5 books I read poolside…*ah*) as I lay lazily in the sun.
Reckless…Obvious…TRUTH. Kick Ass Woman was right. Her story felt so much MORE right than anything The Head Wench has ever uttered…or screamed.
It felt right and it feels…good—so good—to look back and know I soaked up every moment of that vacation without wasting a single second listening to The Head Wench, lost in an abyss of nasty thoughts, preoccupied by what other people might think, MISSING out on the gifts being given to me because I was easily fooled by The Head Wench and her slippery lies.
It has taken me thirty five years to get here. Thirty five years of life and nearly three years of hard work in my own head to be able to meet myself in the mirror, and say, “STRONG WOMAN, you are just FINE the way you are RIGHT now. Don’t fret about a damn thing. You are loved…I. LOVE. YOU. NOW, in this body, and in whatever body you EVER wear.”
It feels freaking awesome to succeed—to actually ACTIVELY practice and succeed at loving myself.
Novel idea—loving my body instead of fighting it.
Novel…and fucking powerful.
My other epiphany?
Three is definitely a crowd.
I know that hurts, Head Wench. Sorry. Not sorry. There’s only room for two here.
Me and Kick Ass Woman.