So far, it has been about a month since I’ve declared my resolutions, and I’m totally rocking them. I’m writing in this thing. I can now do a pull up and a half. And the only time I missed jumping rope is over the two days I suffered from a wildly unpleasant stomach virus. I will spare the four of you the details, but suffice it to say I actually went to the doctor and even took the meds she recommended. Me, the chica who refuses to take an advil. I must be growing.
So there’s that. Today, there was also this:
For those of you who don’t know, I’ve had food issues for most of my life. Even when I ate “what I wanted” I felt bad about it and would proceed to spend anywhere between 1 hour and three days in front of the mirror wondering how much weight I gained from the 2.5 slices of pizza. OK, 5 slices.
Blame it on growing up on Long Island. I certainly do.
I’ve managed to get everything under control: I exercise almost daily in a manner that I enjoy (read: zero time running), I mostly eat clean and balanced, and, while I won’t be plastering nudies of me around Tel Aviv any time soon, I finally love my reflection. I even stopped asking my brother (who is also my roomie) every two days if I got fat. This is no easy task, but here I am.
I’m proud that I can eat deliciousness, but more importantly I’m proud that I can eat 81 calories of refined sugar and saturated fat and enjoy it. And I don’t mean in that Jewish way where we love what’s bad for us because we crave that guilty feeling we get after. But because I actually flat out enjoy it. So, just like any normal person in society these days I selfied the sh*t out of that magnificent moment. And then I uploaded it to the social
drug media platform of my choice.
Twenty minutes later I get a Whatsapp from a really close friend of mine: “Wth is that picture? You’re so much prettier than that, you should delete the pic. I say this out of love.” I love my friend, but this is a girl who is very different from me. She’s the kind who puts on her face to go buy milk and who won’t dance too crazily in a club, even if it’s her favorite song, because maybe someone’s watching. She even told me that I should wake up a half hour earlier every day while I was juggling a part time job and a dual degree program to do my hair and make up when my sleep budget was already mostly relegated to class time.
This is not me. Never was, never will be. I love the occasional dress up, but sometimes life is just sitting in your bathrobe without foundation eating Nutella from the container. With your fingers because spoons are too bourgoise. These moments should be celebrated, not stowed away in the bottom drawer of shame.
When we’re told to hide these slivers (slabs?) of ourselves, we’re actually being told that we should only show us to be our perfect selves. That it’s not ok to be less than, even though that is the very definition of being human.
Well, I’m raising my shaker to being human. Cheers.