Kankles, muffin tops, Dunlop disease, cottage cheese, saddlebags, side boobs, stretch marks. Nobody wants these things but everyone has them. That is correct. EVERYONE. Every single normal human being struggles with these things. And it was brought to my attention that not everyone is aware of this phenomenon. So I must point out that there are key terms in the sentences beginning this paragraph: normal, human, and weight.
Defining normal, when it comes to size and body type, pertains only to those people who eat. Who really actually eat. You know- things like sandwich meat and real cheese slices. Maybe even a mini Kit-Kat or two. Heck through in the whole caboodle- those who actually eat dessert. Normal does not describe any thing you see in any form of media. These people do not eat. I am convinced they are fed by tubes of water, air, cottony things and my nephew's freeze dried yogurt droppings, penetrating their abdominal wall through surgically implanted ports. There is absolutely no possible way that someone as tall and split-brained crazy as Angelina Jolie can stand like the tattooed tower of Pisa and weigh less than me (which is 120 after the holidays)(OK, really 123). She has to be having hallucinations of flying meat and made of Japanese clock parts instead of vital organs. Cameron Diaz is most definitely made of tampon tubes encompassed by LA Looks hair gel. So to compare ourselves to anything found on a magazine or search engine home page is to compare ourselves to what our second definition is: human. Every human being must produce 443mL of water per day just to rid the body of necessary wastes. I'm fairly certain I have that much clinging to my left saddle bag whereas Rihanna doesn't pee because her body obviously doesn't hold more than a shot glass of water, thus proving, she is not human. Victoria's Secret models? Completely alien. 15 year-old aliens who eat Q-tips and lick stamp glue for sustenance. Because of these definitions, I feel I never have to compare myself to whatever media mogul feels he wants to thrust in my face today.
Our third word: Weight. The definition of weight: earths gravity on your mass. But that definition does not hold true when standing in front of the purely evil, 9 foot mirrors in the aerobics room of the gym. Weight is whether or not you can see your side boobs thrashing from side to side as you awkwardly uppercut at double speed in your martial arts aerobics class. Weight is putting on your favorite tank top and yoga pants only to find something that resembles an uncooked ham sticking out between them. Weight is defined as the moment of self defeat and admittance that the washing machine did not, in fact, shrink every single clothing item you own. Weight is the light headed feeling you have when you know that if you take a breath, your dress buttons will explode open like Mt. Vesuvius in the middle of Christmas Eve service. Weight is feeling like a stuffed sausage. And let me attest- whether you're a 4 or a 14, our definition of weight will find you. I'm a size four and these days, everything between my knees and my belly button seems to officially be made of pineapple chunks and banana pudding. Putting on my skinny jeans actually requires me to stuff my inner thigh down my pant leg. The moral of our little story is that although though a person may be a small tyke, they have fat sink holes just like anyone else. At the gym, I too have to watch as my butt cheeks move in the opposite direction of my body movement. And if you think being small will solve all your body problems, they won't. You still get stretch marks.
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