18 March 2010

In defense of squish

According to my BMI, I'm obese.  And no, you're not just seeing me through a series of strangely angled headshots.
I mean, I wore a leotard for Halloween.  
And then I posted a picture of me hungover and bra-less in a leotard.
And no, I don't think I'm obese.   Not perfect, but certainly not obese.
I'm squishy.
And I think squishy is okay.
I mean, I sort of think girls are supposed to be soft.  That hard-body thing can be mouth-watering delish on men, but...I dunno.  Soft is nice too, right?

And if you think about it?  Aren't ALL human bodies pretty fucking awesome in that Miracle of Life way?  I mean here mine grew and birthed and fed a healthy child, and it wakes up every day and it does everything that I ask it to and it even doesn't look that bad!
I exercise daily, I eat thoughtfully, I don't have any weight-related health problems.

I'm healthy, more or less.
I'm happy, more or less.
I think I look okay, more or less.

So.
I'm happy with my body.
Well.
Sorta.
As happy as any girl can be in this silly society with all of these unrealistic expectations.

You know what would be nice?
If every doctor appointment I've been to since age 16 didn't somehow include a medical professional telling me that I need to lose some weight.
Telling normal-looking-healthy-but-maybe-a-little-bit-squishy girls that they're fat is not solving problems for anyone.
See also:
Fuck you.
--
Why yes, I did just schedule my annual exam that appointment where first they tell me I'm fat, and then they tell me to spread my legs.  Why do you ask?