My body takes a lot of abuse from me from time to time. I sometimes stare at my face in a giant lighted magnifying mirror and scowl at my large pores, picking at things until my face turns red. Then I scout out stray hairs on my chin and upper lip that I can barely see, never mind anyone else. Or I pinch my rolls of fat and stand sideways, assessing how pregnant my stomach makes me look (and I’m definitely not pregnant). Other days, I bemoan a broken nail and whip out an emery board, filing my nails within an inch of their lives to make them straight and even. Worse still, I subject it to regular weigh-ins to make sure it hasn’t packed on any pounds. If I see that it has, I get really, really disgusted with it.
Mostly, I just trash-talk about my body in a way I wouldn’t talk about someone unless I truly hated her. And my body and I—well, we’re stuck with each other. For better or worse, till death do us part and all that. Overall, my body serves me well. It’s healthy, with some minor ailment and sicknesses here and there. It gets the job done.
So I’ve decided my body deserves a break. A bit of pampering even. I try to be healthy. Often “trying to be healthy” equates to fixing a problem after it develops. Or to I pay attention to it to try to look good. But rarely do I treat it well just because. My body deserves some positive reinforcement for a change. Continue reading