Is there a more harshly criticized part of the body than the bum?
Not in my world.
Having this constant boring monologue running through my head about my body? It’s tiresome.
Never mind that my hands are feminine and I can type faster than anyone I know.
Never mind that my feet can walk me across cities, be completely in pain at the end of the day and heal themselves overnight to be ready for another day of walking.
Nothing short of a daily miracle.
Never mind that I have a pretty face and only have one grey hair… that I plucked the other day and taped to the window sill to gaze at, not in judgment, but like it’s an alien growth.
|My first grey hair sprouted during the most relaxed time of my life.|
Never mind any of this because my bum issues trump them all.
And I’ve got to get this issue behind me. Arghm.
I’m a fan of nice looking bums. I just wish I had one. No, I wish I thought mine was one of them. Or that I was blissfully unaware of my bum, like I am about my esophagus. It’s all a head game. I know this. I’m aware.
Check out Bernini’s Pluto and Proserpina. I stood agape. This sculpture actually took my breath away.
|I mean, c’mon. This is a sculpture… in MARBLE.
(Borrowed from here)
Yesterday was the Gay Pride Parade here in Gay ol’ Paris. People paraded, danced and cheered to the glory of what their bodies gave them. And they were showing it off in a way that I never could.
Me? My gut is sucked in all the time.
Me? I wear almost exclusively A-line dresses to show off my tiny waist and make the size and shape of my bum a mystery to onlookers.
Me? I can’t bring myself to feel comfortable in my bikini, except in this shot, which is taken at a flattering angle… by me, who is an expert on how to get me at my most flattering angles. Let me tell you, it takes a lot of photos.
I wish I were comfortable in my own skin.
How much do I want to lose? All of it. Obviously. Pft.
I walk for hours in the day. And what I carry with me at the back of my mind is a constant droning calorie counter, ticking off the minutes and hours I’ve walked, making sure I burn what I consume and hoping I burn more than I consume.
Part of the reason I chose Paris (beyond wanting to be bilingual and to hang out with a person who adores me and my bum) was so that I could have a big, safe, interesting, beautiful place to walk off my bum.
But I’d settle for walking off my bum issues.
I’m acting like I’m Jabba the Hut. I’m not Jabba the Hut. I am a healthy average weight for a woman my age.
But I’d rather be like Lady Gaga. (Awareness that this thought is effed.)
I’ve got to get my bum issues behind me. If not for me, for my nieces. I don’t want them to adopt my unhealthy thought process.
I don’t want her to have inhibitions with her body when she’s older:
|Eat your heart out, Auntie Jan.|
The other day, I found myself walking behind these two lovebirds. How beautiful are they?
|I think they have the most beautiful bums. And I love how their bums are hot for each other. Very sweet.|
I’d just like to feel like my bum was beautiful, too.
I wish their was an effective hypnosis treatment.
Or a pill.
Or a miracle.