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.
