Sometimes I look in the mirror and I’m not sure if I like my body.
I’m sorry, was that a little too dramatic of a statement? It’s not that I dislike my body, that was an unfair hook and I didn’t really mean to use it. It’s more that I’m not sure of my body–it’s fine, I suppose, fit enough and not a thing to be either ashamed or excessively proud of–but I’m not sure if I like the shape of it.
Some days I look and I see feminine curves: hips and bust, flanks that are inviting, and a neck that is neither too thin or too thick, long enough to be noticed, and yes, that’s fine. I’m not the perfect specimen of female but it serves its purpose as it does.
Then, some days I look and I see biceps and triceps, wide shoulders and abs which you can count, and a meaty, almost beefy triangular shape from those same wide shoulders that narrow off to my hips…and yes, that’s fine too. I look as athletic as I feel at those times, glad that I can make an L-shape with my arm and a fist and you could put a plate on it. Dinner is served.
But, there are days where I look and I see the feminine, and I recoil, and there are days when I look and see the masculine (or athletic because I do not consider them synonymous but many people do) and I step back.
What am I? Am I one or the other? Must there be a battle? Who will win the war?
So, that’s it then: there are days when I look and I don’t like what I see because I’m not sure if this is what I’m supposed to be and I’m not sure who I am apologizing to for not being, for not having a body, that is fit for purpose.
The days I enjoy the most are the rare ones where I can look and I can see both because the truth of the matter is that I feel both. And how often do we ever get to project an image which mirrors what’s really inside?
Not often enough, obviously.