It’s been about ninth months since I posted this photo of me, on my birthday, in a bikini. I spoke of self acceptance and worthiness, despite my imperfect body. I was feeling so rich in love that day, surrounded by friends and family, it hardly mattered that I didn’t have a c-cup or a six pack. I was proud of being a whole, happy human being for possibly the first time in my life. A lot has happened since then: I fell deeply, madly in love (more on that soon, I promise), and terribly, sadly out of love with my body. That’s what I want to talk about today.
Until now, body image hasn’t been a topic on this blog because until now I haven’t really struggled with mine. From kindergarten on, I was always the taller, big-boned girl. Sometimes I yearned to be a cute, tiny blonde but not in exchange for my brains, sense of humor or killer backhand. In college I quickly put on the freshman 15 and just as easily took it off by working out. As an I adult I’ve been diligent about diet and exercise but never a drill sergeant. I worship good food and french wine, and I would rather loll in bed with the NYTs on a Sunday morning than hit a spin class. But I managed to maintain a balanced routine and, as a result, my weight. Until a few months ago, when it crept up on me. I first had a hunch when my normally baggie boyfriend jeans weren’t so baggie anymore. And my stomach didn’t shrink back after a day or two of good behavior. Then my a...