Today, I read the fitness procedures and test material for an upcoming fitness exam. I’ve been avoiding this class since 2009. That’s about six years, I believe. Why? Because it’s taken me a long time to love myself. It’s taken me a long time to come to terms with the fact that my body shape is the way it is. It’s taken me hours and hours of pep-talking myself in the mirror to come to terms with the fact that skinny jeans and I will never be best friends. It’s taken me years and years and years and marriage to someone who loves me even when I’m naked to believe it’s okay to wear a bikini. I’ve tried it all – starving myself, throwing up, eat this or eat that, exercise more – and this is still me. It took forever for me to decide that I was beautiful even though I can’t fit into a size three or eight. It’s taken me a long time to look the world dead in the eye and say “fuck you.” I’m just as hypocritical as the rest of the world when it comes to body image. I won’t lie and say I’m not. I want to be that 125 I was in high school. The day I see those numbers on the scale, I will celebrate. And it’s going to take a while. I know that. I’ve been doing good though. Eating healthier, trying to exercise more. But it’s hard to take off those pounds you added while on birth control and getting married. I’d love to say that my confidence in myself is unshakable, but’s not. And the last thing I want is someone telling me that I’m overweight and fat and I need to work on it. Thanks, I already know. I know. I live in my body. Especially in front of other people.