Good news, ladies: unrealistic body standards are old news. That’s right—it’s time to start focusing on what’s on the inside, and fucking despising that instead! There’s gotta be something to hate, and if not your body, why not just you? I, for one, recently found total peace with my body in its natural form, which has finally allowed me the freedom to start criticizing myself in a much deeper and more substantial way.
I used to spend hours in front of the mirror fixating on this blemish or that imperfection when one day I woke up and thought: does any of this really matter? Beneath this suit of flesh, I am a whole person, an individual, and a pretty shitty one at that!
For instance, I’ve never really learned how to drive. I’ll say it. I mean, shit, that’s kind of a problem, isn’t it? I passed my Driver’s Ed test, but only by one point, and I still kind of wing it every time I go through a roundabout. I guess that just goes to show you how much of ourselves we miss when we’re focused on our looks.
I’m also anxious-avoidant, deeply unreliable, and can’t stop doing this really awkward thing in handshakes where I end up going in for a hug. Every fucking time.
And here I was thinking I was just fat!
I guess what I’m trying to say is that these days, instead of being defined by my waist size or the stretchmarks on my thighs, I am defined by my weird attachment style and tendency to drive everyone who loves me away.
Who knew body positivity could be so excruciatingly painful?
These are just the kinds of realizations you have once you free your mind from the patriarchal obsession with vanity. But it’s worth it, for some reason, I think. Right? I don’t know, I’m being paid by Dove to say this.
All I know is, once I got over my body dysmorphia, it was like a wave of clarity washing over me that made me stop for the first time in my life and think: “Shit! This actually didn’t help at all. Actually, I would kind of rather just be fat. At least they have surgery to fix that.”