There isn’t a woman alive I know who doesn’t complain about one part of her body.
Droopy boobs. Saggy ass. Baby pooch.
Jiggle here. Jiggle there.
Scars. Wrinkles. Sun spots.
Why can’t we just be happy the way we are? Why do we constantly point out our imperfections during conversations?
“See my belly skin … look at that! It was NEVER there before!” “See how low my boobs are hanging!” “Back fat! I have BACK FAT!”
It all comes down to body image and the way women perceive themselves.
Sure, some women are perfectly happy the way they are.
“My baby pooch reminds me I carried my children” is my favorite line.
Well no shit.
I don’t need a baby pooch to remind me I had children. Them calling my name 5,000 times a day is a constant reminder.
Yet, more often than not, we body shame. Hell, I even body shame my own body. I guess I figure since it’s mine, I have the right to bitch and complain.
Yes, I work out – almost four days a week – but I also enjoy eating food and having a glass of wine here and there during the week.
It’s my take on “moderation.”
I’d be thrilled if the baby pooch vanished — just like my energy supply did after they were all born.
But life isn’t like that. And I just learned that crunching from sun up to sun down isn’t the answer either. I’ve been doing it wrong. Apparently in order to tighten my abdominal region I need to hang myself upside on a weird-ass contraption called an inversion table.
The only problem with that is … chances are my baby pooch would flop into my face and I’d suffocate.