Love Thyself

Two-fifty, two hundred, two-fifty again.

I’ve struggled with my weight most of my adult life.

Either I’m stuffing my face with everything in the place, or I’m working out all day every day, trying to get thin.

But I know now I must love the skin that I’m in. Whatever that is.

I love my belly, regardless if it’s stretch-marked with rolls like Buddha, or a compact baby six pack.

 I love my thighs, whether they be wondrous or of the thunderous variety.

I love my calves, be they dandelion-thin or bulky like watermelons; my arms, be they string beans or Christmas hams; and my chest in all its asymmetric mess.

I love my glutes, whether they be nonexistent or all that and then some.

I love my hair, be it curly, kinky, wavy, straight, blonde, red, or black.

I love my too-big-for-my-frame feet, my bowed legs, and my trick knee.

I now see it matters not how much I lift or how many miles I run, so long as I persist to be cool with myself, free to be me in all my beautiful glory.

So, if you feel seen and know what I mean, then repeat after me:

I love myself.