Under a clear blue cloud

[loves_bitch3]

The sentiment behind campaigns like "Love Your Body" is undoubtedly noble, and in the "Angry Rant" section of my mind there is often a manifesto brewing about rampant fat-phobia, the disconnect between media image and real human flesh, and (most stridently) the accompanying weird American Puritan issues about food and idleness and control and women's voices. That said, there is no way I could ever love my body. I am not mad at my body; I don't hate the way it looks, and I try to appreciate the good things it does for me (like orgasms, infection-fighting, tastebuds that appreciate dark chocolate, and generally being a useful vehicle in which to keep my brain). But it is more of a "wary détente" situation than "love." As much as I would like to subscribe to some yoga-rrific holistic philosophy about the mind and body being connected, I can't help but see my body and my "self" locked in constant low-level struggle, like an elderly couple bickering on opposite ends of a plaid couch. (Um, I am not sure what the plaid couch represents in this analogy. Please do ignore the plaid couch.)

Trust is an important part of love, and who can trust the body? Always tripping over cracks in the sidewalk, getting paper cuts in weird places, getting drunker than your brain intended. Not to mention the true bodily disasters, like vomiting or cancer. Or how about how the body SUDDENLY BETRAYS YOUR LONG-HELD ASSUMPTIONS by revealing itself to be a TOTALLY DIFFERENT SIZE than previously thought? How about that? How about them fucking apples?

More on this later.

--Moonstruck is made with the goodness of whole grains.