Friday, May 27, 2016

About Bodies & the Feast

Bathing suit weather is upon us. The weather that makes us pinch our sides, point at our muffin tops, and make us wish tacos weren't so delicious. This late spring-early summer time of year is much dreaded because you didn't start dieting earlier and now you're here looking frumpy in a bathing suit you're pretty sure was mislabeled because when did you go up a size?

I get it. I'm here with you. Except this year it's different. 

Since renewing my anti-scale attitude in March, I've worked really hard not to hang out in front of the mirror and hate my body. For the first four weeks -in fact-, I'd do ten push-ups every time I tried to convince myself I was less than beautiful. While I dropped my chest to the ground and up again, I would run through the list of amazing things my body can do -like run a marathon, mow the lawn, paint globes, write words. I run through it and feel empowered.

I mentioned this habit to my mom over coffee and pastries a few weeks back. She nodded over her steamy latte. I told her I wish women understood how inherently great they've been made. I talked about the freedom I feel in moving away from the measurements, the way moments of goodness over food stack up big and bold, the joy I find in gathering for a feast.

I dare you to spend more time loving yourself. 

Because you deserve the freedom and joy. You deserve to be wildly present at the dinner table where carbs and cheese and vegetables all sit in community. You deserve to eat and drink and be merry without a fierce guilt because you didn't order the salad. Yes friend, you deserve to love the amazing things your body can do.

This is a love that requires brave and hard choices. 

But you can do it because at the end is a feast. And I don't mean the kind of feast that is made up of calories -though those are good. But the kind of feast that is Whoa and Holy and Right. The kind of feast that's warm and fuzzy like your favorite blanket, that's salty and cozy like a bowl of buttered pasta, that's tangy and a little bit drunk like a glass of champagne.

It's the kind of feast that says: I'm proud of me. 

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