Confession: I’m Shallow

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.

good-bad

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Fries Before Guys (and Girls)

I’ve gotten fat.

I mean, I’m not fat. That’s crazy. I joke to Poppa and Jack and Nate and Luke and Momma that I’ve gotten fat — because I have. My body literally has more fat than it used to. Hence, I’ve gotten fat. But I’m not fat. And either way, it doesn’t matter.

So, yeah. Let me give you a brief history —

I was always thin. I was blessed with the good genes from this wonderful side of the family:

(Yes, my family used to go all out for Halloween.) (Yes, I’m the one with the drink in my hand, covering my face.) (Yes, I tried to make the photo larger but couldn’t figure it out. Zoom in or something.)

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