Let’s try this break up again, shall we? This time around has been sort of lovely actually, instead of crying on you about how fat and hideous I am I just laugh at the weight gain because I know it’s muscle. I know that I’m not getting fatter. I can see the changes in the lines of my arms, the muscles on my legs, and the lovely lovely lift of my ass.
But here’s the thing: you are still an obsession. You are still a bad boyfriend. When I stand on you I still get a little discouraged because part of me wants to be that waif of a girl with no boobs that a man can pick up like she weighs nothing instead of the She-Hulk I am turning into that can lift a 25 pound baby like he’s nothing. (That’s handy though since he’s a snuggle butt and loves it.)
As I work out more and actually push myself I think about a lot of things, not one of them has to do with you. The reasons I’m working on my body have nothing to do with losing weight or being able to stand on a scale and think ‘Finally, I’m 135 pounds. Right where I should be. Skeletor central.” (Because that’s what I look like anything below the 145 region. And I know it, and that’s creepy to me. Bite me BMI, you don’t know my body.)
The images that come to mind are more of the kicking down doors with a single kick, and lifting a couch, or having a guy lift me against a wall like Ryan Gosling does to Rachel McAdams in The Notebook. (For the record I’d like to state that Kristofer Hivju [Tormund Giantsbane in GoT] is my current dreamboat warrior man that I imagine is picking me up. That guy is intensely attractive on all scales.) Good images of having a body that is a force to be reckoned with, not one that is ballerina tiny. Papa isn’t built to be a teeny tiny. Just not.
So why do I stand on you sometimes every single day? Probably because one day I’m hoping you’ll say:
You are kind. You are smart. You are important. Your weight doesn’t matter. You are strength. You are fire.
I’m going to take that fire and hold onto my measuring tape, once again, and quit you like others need to quit smoking.
Once again, bon débarras vous vieux bâtard.
Keep moving forward. Preferably to a place where you can climb hot gingers like a tree.