21 weeks, 0 days.
Hijacked. That might be the best word to describe this body at present. A foreign torso complete with two oversized breasts and one protruding abdomen that says to the world with shrugged shoulders ‘might be a baby, might be too many donuts.’
American societal self-consciousness seems like the beginning of a genetic mutation of the second X chromosome. We’re not born worrying about ‘the right’ shade of skin, style of hair, color of nails, fabric with which we strategically cover ourselves. The awareness of those trivial things is learned and made important to us. We do this to ourselves.
For awhile I subscribed to TIME and People magazines, joking they were brain food and empty calories. One day, after I finished an issue of People the realization that I only felt bad about my body was startling. I closed the periodical focused on all the parts of my body that I didn’t like, and for the most part, couldn’t change. And I realized I didn’t like those parts because they didn’t look like one-dimensional figures in the media of which I chose to surround myself. Instead of mirroring the characteristics and inner beauty of the 3D people I admired around me, I was measuring myself against the physical attributes of actresses and celebrities.
As I sit at the gorgeous pool of a gorgeous resort on this gorgeous island and all I think about how chubby I look in a bikini and wising no one noticed me; I’m left wonder what the hell my problem is and how I’m going to get over myself as not to reinforce this superficial bullshit with our daughter.
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