WARNING – Do not read this if you are:
a. A man. You wouldnt understand any of it.
b. Barbie. Get your plastic fantastic self back to the assembly line.
c. In a ‘Embrace our inner beauty and love yourself’ mood. I don’t want to hear it. Go read Oprah’s blog instead. Or hug a tree. Save an endangered snail. Whatever. Just go away.
Every woman hates at least one part of her body. (Unless that woman is Barbie.) I’m betting that even Angelina Jolie hates something about herself. ‘Oh Brad, do you think my bones look big in this dress?’ Now I know that we are all supposed to be embracers of our beautiful selves. Finding the joy in every squishy, blubbery piece of ourselves just like Oprah says we should. Your body is a temple. And most days, I’m good at singing along to John Mayer, ‘My body is a Wonderland.’ But other days? Shizz, let’s get real.
Today’s one of those days. There’s a lot about this ‘temple’ of mine that needs a do-over on the Home Improvement show. But the one thing I hate the most is my stomach. My belly to be precise. Ugh.
Some women carry their weight in their butt whereas one of my nicknames in high school was ‘pancake butt’. As in No-Butt-Lani. Other women, carry their weight in their thighs and legs. Thunder-thighs, kalo legs. Not me. (refer to ‘Chicken Legs Lani’ post) Some women carry all their abundance in their chest. And then complain about it loudly when flat-chested girls can hear them. ‘Ohmigosh it’s just soooo annoying having a chest like this, nothing fits me and I fall over everytime I have to bend over, don’t you just hate it?!’ (Hmm, can’t say I’ve ever had that problem…)
No, my body peeve is all in my stomach. It used to be amazing – a long time ago, back when I didn’t appreciate it. Back when I ate whatever I wanted, did no exercise and danced too much in too many nightclubs. I see pics of my stomach back then and I’m like…DAAAYUUM give that beautiful thing an Academy Award!
But now? It’s got no self-control or self-respect whatsoever. It just slobs around the house like someone who’s been lazing about in their pyjamas, eating donuts and watching Desperate Housewives reruns…for ten years straight. Ugh. It doesn’t help that it’s been stretched out of shape several times. Or had the muscle tone all sliced out of it by three c-sections. If I could deport my belly out of the country I would. Or even re-assign some of it. Like, send some of it to the pancake butt! Or re-allocate it to the chest region. Maybe donate some to Angelina even…oh the things I could do with this salubrious stomach… So when I’m in body-hate mode, it’s that stomach that I usually pick on.
And then the Hot Man gets on my case. Because according to him, “You should be more grateful for your belly. It’s nurtured our babies. Helped to give them life. Worked hard to carry them. Those stretch marks are signs of what your body went through to bring our children to this earth. I love your stomach – and so should you.” (Did I mention that the Hot Man can be very sweet when he wants to be? And it’s so nice when your man is blinded by the eyes of love.)
Hmm, so I’m looking at this slob of a stomach and I’m trying to see it the way the Hot Man sees it. I’m narrowing my eyes, looking at it from all different angles in the mirror…but I’m still not seeing it.
Because I’m not blinded by the eyes of love.
I HATE MY STOMACH. It’s horrible. So there.
If you’re having one of those days, then please feel free to join in and tell us what do YOU hate about your stunning self? (And for the love of donuts, please don’t tell us why we should be happy with our bodies and live in Nirvana bliss with our fat. I’m not in the mood.)
When I die, get resurrected and go to heaven – I better have my old stomach back. It looked just like this. Honest. My body was a WONDERLAND dammnit! And if they try to offload some slob stomach on me – then I want my money back.