Body, Mind, and SoulCycle

This is likely already a title to some article in Men’s Health or something warning men that they may become vulnerable if they start taking care of their bodies and mind with something other than creatine. Too bad! Plausible deniability!
My body/flesh-suit has been my worst enemy for twenty-four years. I want to one day know what it’s like to wake up in the morning and look in the mirror and be excited about what is standing there, who is standing there. The inadequacy of my body is entirely mental, but proving a greater hill to climb than any one that it physically has.
I played competitive tennis for ten years, I ran a half marathon, I’ve been to SoulCycle. I shop at H&M and Urban Outfitters and Madewell. I can buy jeans without trying them on first. What a privilege. I can sneak through small spaces, and I truly eat whatever I want. I do not have a heavy step. I am not in any health danger, and my 12/14 frame has not prohibited me from living my life in anyway. I hate this body anyway.
My gregariousness and designer clothes (no not my clothes from H&M you idiots I’m a Ted Baker SLUT), have been a perfectly crafted mask, or should I say character for the person who they hide. I am certain in that I have spent more time (and money) making sure that my clothes match the same facade and narrative that I’ve been striving to form. No matter how much self-care and self-love have been trending lately, they seem to be mantras that I cannot keep. I was never taught these racial ideals.
To be frank for a moment, I know I am objectively pleasant to look at. There are times when I come across good lighting and put some thirst material on my Instagram story for all of my unrequited lovers. But for those fleeting moments of love for this body, I have lived in a million more full of hate. Every room I walk into I assume that no one wants to speak to me, not because of my horrifying takes of pop culture, but because of my body. I allow my body to speak for me. Every person I have liked, whether or not they liked me back, I haven’t allowed myself past a certain threshold, because god forbid they find out that the girl who literally lives off of red meat and frozen yogurt doesn’t have a flat stomach. God forbid, someone I like think I’ve beautiful despite the dent in my butt from when I broke my pelvis freshman year (true and now everyone knows). The thing is though, even if I were Hellen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships, I’d still be counting my calories and running the Central Park loop five times a week. I don’t know what it will take for me to believe that this vessel is of any worth.
I mean, is anyone happy in their body? Isn’t that why the fitness world is a billion dollar industry? Don’t we all hate ourselves in some capacity? Granted, I love exercising, and I am a true blue competitor, I almost barfed in my spin class today trying to go faster than the teacher. I love to challenge my body. I love Chinese food, and beer, and sitting. Oh my god, I love sitting. Sitting is only bested by laying. I live to lay. My weight has been fluctuating within the same thirty pounds since I was a sophomore in college, that’s probably not healthy, but it’s where I’m at. I wouldn’t care if I weighed 1000 pounds if that meant I loved myself.
Maybe I wrote this as a proclamation of a goal to love myself more, or to work harder in the gym. Mostly, this is a proclamation of fear. Admitting my insecurities is admission of fault. I’d like to think that if I don’t mention to anyone what I look like, or even how I feel about my look, then no one will notice, and that is comforting in some way, isolating, but fine. I don’t know how my relationship with my flesh suit will end, but it sure as hell is going to last a long ass time so we better figure it out.

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