Right now my under arm hurts from my first bra of three today. The first, that had been fitted for me by an actual professional was like a corset, or armor. My body actually changed shape when I took it off and could breathe again. The second I sweat through during this afternoon's hot yoga to the point where I could have wrung it dry. I'm on the third which is close to death's door but I'm eeking a little more life out of it as I can. My bras do impressive, monumental work each day, if you know what I mean. I don’t even want to tell you what letter of the alphabet I'm on, but rest assured it’s up there. A drunk person may not even be able to count that high.
Last Thursday when I went to the endocrinologist I learned that I’d gained 20 pounds since the last time I'd been to the endocrinologist. She delivered the news with a pained, sorrowful look on her face as if telling me my firstborn had just died in her arms. That night I dreamed a team of male doctors clustered around discussing my weight as if I had some kind of face eating leprosy. Like my body was toxic and horrid and possibly contagious. The thing is, I've felt that way most of my life. And I'm done.
Fuck you, I wanted to say my dream doctors then and so I’ll say it now. I am living the best version of this life I’ve ever lived. And there is more of me around to enjoy it. My relationships are deep and beautiful, my business is magically evolving and my creative sensory awareness is exploding. And this winter I let myself eat whatever I wanted because that’s how I would have fed a goddess had she knocked at my door. With casseroles and cake.
And so dammit, me too.