Sometimes I’m at a decent peace with my body.
And then sometimes I see the 24-year-old assistant leaving the office in her yoga clothes.
Right, then. Never eating again.
(And because I’ve spoken to nothing but just…fucking idiots all day, please don’t make me explain that it’s a joke.)
I’m sure there’s a size and shape a woman can be where my grandfather WON’T see fit to comment on it. But I have not yet found it. All of us are either “too thin,” are “losing weight” and should “keep it up,” OR have “put on a few pounds.”
It starts when you’re about 10; end age to be determined. (Grandmom is 83, so…not yet.)
Thanks, Granddad. You wanna kick in some cash for my next therapy session?
I don’t know how it’s even possible I still find this stuff remarkable. This is a family that regards weight loss as a “bright side” of having cancer. The fact that I manage to have more body-confident days than body-conscious days is a goddamn miracle. (A miracle I often fight myself for. But a miracle all the same.)