Poor and thin vs. rich and fat
When I focus too much on wanting to be thin, I force myself to recall a study that appeared in a fitness magazine that revealed that 63% percent of women would rather be poor and have no weight to lose than be rich but significantly overweight.

If I’m honest, I must admit I at least understand the allure. I can mark the age when I became aware of my size, when I realized that it was “bad” to be taller and larger than average for my age.

I was eight years old, and my grandmother delighted in telling anyone who would listen how healthy I was. Eventually, I became aware that for her, healthy was a polite word for chubby. Being chubby wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but getting too healthy meant you had moved over into fat.

I suddenly noticed my round cheeks and the roll of flesh pressing against my tucked-in shirt. My school friends were slim, pretty, and cute, not healthy. And I was ashamed.

It saddens me that my story is not unique. But what angers me is that we do this to ourselves.

The biggie-sized picture
We live in a land of such abundance that we have forgotten that we don’t just have plenty, we have too much. When we complain about all the wonderful things to eat and drink, we are rarely cognizant of those for whom even our leftovers are an unattainable luxury.

I am one of those complainers, viewing restaurant buffets with contempt because there are too many goodies. I forget that for much of the world, the food I will discard at the end of my meal is more than they will sit down to.

Body beloved
Over the years, I have acquired stretch marks and a sag here and there. I am pierced, inked, scarred, and banged up in a few places. I must look at the things I have done to my body — purposefully and unintentionally — and love it just the same. Not because this body is all I’ve got, but because it’s always been with me. This body is as much a part of my story as my words.

To hate my body would be to hate me and my journey. I don’t. And I can improve my body just as I can improve my mind, no hatred required. With vigilance, I can rise above body loathing.

As the mother of a preschool girl, I often reflect on what I will teach her and other young women about their bodies. In my daughter, I see perfect skin, silky curls, and unmarred possibility. Her body won’t stay that way. An adventurous spirit and love of movement have already resulted in skinned knees, cuts, and scrapes. I see these little boo-boos and am unconcerned. She is still beautiful. Maybe she’ll dye her hair or pierce her ears. She will still be beautiful.

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