So, I lied.
My psychiatrist, therapist, and I (more they than I) have figured out that I’m a dirty rotten liar.
I lied about that time I told you I dig my chub.
Well, no, that’s not completely true either. I do dig it, in ways. Like:
- I have a butt now. It used to be flat, now it’s not, and that’s awesome.
- I’m curvy. I like it.
- My legs aren’t chicken legs anymore.
- I get to eat whatever I want and still be hot. Because I am hot.
- I never cared much for the thigh gap — I’m proud to have thighs.
- My boobs are huge.
But also . . .
- When I smile I have a double chin and I hate it.
- My boobs are too saggy.
- I look pregnant. I am not pregnant. I should not look pregnant.
- My arms aren’t sticks like they used to be. I’m not fond of that.
- I have a muffin top. I even had a dream about some guy telling me I have a muffin top.
- My calves jiggle.
It turns out I’m just as insecure as the next person.