(no subject)
Maybe it’s a runner’s disease.
But I NEVER want to be fat.
I’ve gotten into my phases where I’ve picked up ‘weight’
I’ve had my moments.
But the last thing I will EVER do is let myself go.
I’m the smallest girl in my apartment.
I’m the smallest girl at my job.
And I’m not even as small as I wanna be.
It disgusts me to see these girls eat whole bags of chicken fingers dipped in ranch and Doritos with sour cream.
I’ve become a judgmental bitch who pities ‘the big girls’.
I feel bad for them.
I feel bad for the stretch marks that will never disappear.
For the protruding kangaroo pouches.
The double digit pant sizes.
The uncontrollable jiggle.
I love working out in my sports bra.
I love saying I’m going to work out and it’s 4 in the morning.
I love the sweat dripping from my nose.
I love the painful stomach churning.
I love taking them to McDonalds and ordering a bottle of water.
I love drinking my green tea while they drink their koolaid and dr. pepper.
I’m beginning to love my body.
The oddest thing happened to me yesterday.
I was trying on clothes and I wasn’t satisfied with the way any of my outfits looked on me.
I must have tried on 14 different outfits.
It was until I was standing in the middle of my bathroom, staring at my naked body that I was happy with what I saw.
I wasn’t pleased with the clothes on.
But with the clothes off, I was perfect.
This workout regiment I’ve been on is working wonders.
I stared at pelvic creases.
My perked breasts.
My slender forearms.
My apple round bottom.
My muscular thighs.
My confident posture.
My perfect body.
If I could have walked out that door without one piece of clothing on, I would have been the happiest woman on Earth.
I wanted to show off.
“I work hard for what I have” The room fell silent.
They had that comment coming.
I wanted to flaunt the results.
I know, I know. I sound like a swell headed barbaric hypocrite.
And ya know what, I love it.
Hate me for it, it’s ok.
Love the one still believes it’s a runner thing,
Christen Henry