I haven't been writing much lately because, well. I've been busy. Job, kids, 22 credit hours of higher education - I don't have time. But I read this today, and I was compelled to write. Absolutely compelled.
I love this. LOVE it.
I was thin my whole life. Like, 89 lbs. when I graduated from high school thin. Like, back down to a size 6 at my 6-week postnatal appointment with my son thin. Thin to the point that I thought the bones sticking out through my skin was pretty. Hair falling out was normal. Bruises everywhere were just a fact of life.
And then, after the horror of Claire's pregnancy and delivery, after postpartum depression and anti-depressant meds, after a psychological breakdown *because* of those meds, after divorce, and moving, and death, and losing my job, and having my kid diagnosed with an incurable and critical illness... I'm fat.
Oh, I say chubby, but let's face facts: I'm fat. Fat to the point that I had someone say, TO MY FACE, "What happened to you? You got FAT!" (Well, you still have no chin, and I see you're still the same dickhead you were in high school, Mr. S.)
But you know what? I'm happier now. I don't obsess about how many days I can go without food. I don't randomly pass out.
I eat homemade mac and cheese and I *enjoy* it. And my man thinks I'm sexy as hell. To the point I can feel him watching my butt as I walk down the aisles at the grocery store. To the point he can't keep his hands off of me. TMI but there it is.
To the point I'm having boudoir portraits done before my 45th birthday next month. How's that for TMI? And my man? He can't. freaking. wait.
So yeah. That article? I so totally get it. I embrace it. I celebrate it. Good for her. Good for me. Good for all of the chubby girls in yoga pants who are GORGEOUS. I'm fat and happy. Deal with it.