The other day, as I was getting ready for my milfy morning walk, I realized it was so hot outside that in order to avoid getting my hair sweaty and having to (ugh) wash it, I would have to go… sleeveless!!
Well. Based on the level of alarm that instantly besieged my body, you’d think I were at risk of getting pilloried in the Village Square for the offense of having arms! (As if I, a woman, could actually be any more body-shamed than I already am.)
I KNOW that my arms are just fine, the problem is I don’t really FEEL that way. I want arms that look like hot dogs, not corn dogs. I’ve had both types of arms before and the hot dog ones make me feel stronger; more disciplined; more put-together -- more powerful. And there’s the irony, of course: the more undernourished (for me) my arms, the stronger that I feel. Probs not what Nature intended.
So anyway, I took the walk sleeveless, because a wiser part of me said, fuck it. When I got back home, I turned into my closet and a photograph caught my eye. There, in a disintegrating silver mid-2000’s dollar store frame, was a picture of me and a beloved sorority sister -- a younger member of my sorority “family tree.” In this picture (taken at our yearly formal and featuring a mint-green spandex dress that I purchased at Sonic-the-Hedgehog-spee
d for about $32 dollars from the Macy’s in the mall), my right arm is jutting towards the foreground, flattened in full corn dog display against my torso. My left arm is protectively wrapped behind my “little sister’s” back. I am holding a suspiciously orange drink with a lime. I am standing tall, and strong and straight. My dear, younger sorority sister is leaning into me, so relaxed, so joyful, so free to be in carefree joy. My strong arms, my mighty corn dogs, were a container for our love.
“I love my arms!” I said aloud, maybe for the very first time. I grabbed the picture off of the shelf. My arms didn’t look too big! They didn’t look too small, either! They looked like ME! They looked PERFECT! They looked perfectly NORMAL, like normal arms are allowed to be.
Mother Nature MADE my arms the way they are… the way they are SUPPOSED to be!
So the next time some rude, judgmental, intrusive, controlling, and completely unproven, implanted thought enters my head because it wants to torture me about the look of my body (!!!!) then I will know that this thought was not whispered to me from my soul. And at the VERY least, I will talk back to it.
Our body-shaming thoughts are just thoughts.
[Ask yourself, who put them there?]
And remember: just because you’re thinking a thought,
doesn’t mean you need to believe it.
In solidarity,
And with love,
MOM
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