Usually, I don’t have a problem with my body. In fact, I like it. I have to, because I have no intention of changing it, other than punching a few holes here and there and inking up my skin. This weekend, however, I was confronted by something that threatened to destroy the self-confidence I take such pride in. This weekend, I found an old duffle bag full of clothes from my high school days.<\/p>\n
As any of you who have met me in person know, I’m fat. Rubenesque, if you’re into flowery language. I wasn’t always fat. In high school, i was teensy. I never realized how teensy until I held up a t-shirt that would fit a four-year-old and realize it was a size 2 from GAP. Now, I have this policy in life. My policy is, “Do what feels good.” Dieting doesn’t feel good. No one can convince me that a Snickers don’t taste as good as thin feels. Because I’ve been thin, and it didn’t taste like Snickers. But in that moment, as I held up that tiny shirt, I thought, “My God. How did I get this fat? I need to go on a diet.” <\/p>\n
That feeling passed as soon as we started roasting marshmallows over the campfire. But I did take stock. How did I get to this weight?<\/p>\n
So, in the end, I guess the leap from a size 2 to a size 20 wasn’t a downward slide generously greased with ice cream cake and cheese fries. Every pound I’ve gained has been the result of love and good fortune. And I’m not about to wish that away.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Usually, I don’t have a problem with my body. In fact, I like it. I have to, because I have no intention of changing it,…<\/p>\n