This passage has always held such promise for me. It means that I will someday stop caring about my decidedly imperfect body. It doesn’t mean I’ll get a perfect body by the model-thin standard of the fashion magazines. Instead, my skinny legs, big feet, and dozens of scars and blemishes will be replaced by something so incredible and pure it will defy even the best human imaginings.

Am I worthy of such a glorious transformation? As someone whose body is a study in mixtures and mysteries, I’m challenged and perplexed by the promise of perpetual body satisfaction.

My body history
My heritage is European American, African American, and American Indian. The result of this commingling is what some consider an indeterminable skin color and interesting hair. It seems to represent the true nature of the melting pot: a mass of cultures, textures, and influences vying to retain their identities. I love my hair and respect it, and it lets me believe I’m in control.

My body inventory could go on, and I earnestly try to be thankful for every inch of muscle and skin I’ve been blessed with. It is a struggle. To be blunt, I feel fat. I’m sure many women and also men can relate. The last time I was thin, I was seven. I don’t remember thinness — what it felt like to be slim and unencumbered by a desire to be thinner. I remember being seven — climbing trees and dressing with glorious oblivion and abandon. It was the early 1980s, and I had a two-piece swimsuit, half black and half aqua. My body confidence was based on something inside me; I had not yet learned about finding courage from my exterior appearance.

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