Fancy Friday

This morning I woke up late (as usual).

I jumped in the shower and I mentally figured out an outfit for today.

I decided upon a new floral print shirt and a pair of jeans that make my booty look banging.

Got out of said shower and did my hair, put on a little make up, let the doggy out (I admit it, ’twas me), got dressed and admired myself in the mirror.

For a split second, actually, I should add that. It’s vital for my story time. I looked in the mirror and I was upset. Because I “looked fat” in the mirror.

Now, I was home alone, well with the company of my fur children who cannot make comments on my outward appearance (which is a good thing, Tick would be a little sassy) so I made comments to myself about how “terrible and jiggly and unfit and disgusting” I looked. I made a lot. I looked around the room to try and find a different shirt. One that was baggy enough to not show off my bodacious bod and I was already running late enough that if I literally did not leave the house 3 mins prior, I would be late. So I had no choice but to continue to wear said “fat” shirt and suffer the consequences.

Until I realized something. The shirt didn’t make me look fat. If I looked fat, I would have been fat even before the shirt was laid on my body. The shirt was cute, and I wanted to show it off. And why did it matter that I looked a little lumpy in the shirt? It wasn’t like I was going to take off the sweater that I layered over it anyway, so when I sat down I could just “casually” drape the sweater across my tummy in a way that you wouldn’t be able to see the “offending” rolls. And frankly, whose business was it that I was a little chubby? Literally no one I work with has ever made any rude comments about my lack-of-supermodel-body anyway. (My hair…yes…but not the body) And what did I, Kaylie Jane, care about IF they said anything anyway? Why should I? We are so sadly programmed to look at our bodies (male and female) and tear ourselves down every single day, least we feel something good about it. If we are overly positive than we are considered vain and superficial. Why is that? Why can we compliment strangers on the sidewalk, in walmart, in the bookstore about their hair make up shirt shoes face selves but we can’t genuinely appreciate the bodies that we have been blessed with? The bodies that get us out of bed in the mornings, the bodies that protect our guts from the outside world, the body that is uniquely ours and ours alone? Why?

I wore that shirt today, and my booty jeans and I felt fine all day. When the nagging voice in the back of my brain said “stand up straight and suck in that tummy”, I told her to STFU. I mean, I did stand up straighter, good posture is important.

From now on, Ima work those booty jeans and own dat t-shirt.

 

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