Tuesday, April 23, 2013

I'd Like You To Meet B.O.B.

I know I usually write on the humorous side, but...

Today I posted a Face In Hole picture where my friend had photoshopped our faces on Victoria's Secret models' bodies. I put the following caption with it: Too bad it isn't as easy to get these bodies as it is for us to photoshop our heads on them.

The seemingly flawless, cellulite-free, tanned, toned bodies make me both envious and insecure. After all my body has never looked like that. In fact, I don't even know that my body is capable of looking like that. Now, I'm not what anyone, with maybe the exception of the modeling industry and my ex-husband, would consider to be fat, overweight, or any of the other comments people use or we, ourselves, use to tear down our confidence. But, I do have curves...sometimes, I think a couple too wide and a few too many.

I could give you the excuses as to why I have them...a medical condition that messes with my metabolism; medicine that does the same; an injury prevents me from doing most cardio...but the truth is, I have a life. I do not get paid to look perfect all of the time. I don't have 4+ hours every day to spend at the gym or have the money for my own personal chef or health conscious meals to be delivered daily. To be honest, I work my ass off for the body that I have. Well that isn't exactly true. For the most part, I try to exercise daily and eat right, but I still have an ample ass that my ex, my friends, co-workers, and I affectionately refer to as B.O.B (Big Ol' Butt).

B.O.B has been around since I was 8 years old, or at least that was the first time my sisters' ever made me aware of my bubble butt. I am not ashamed of B.O.B. He (yes, I've decided he is male) is a part of me. Still every once in a while, like when I was trying on my new Victoria's Secret bathing suit that arrived yesterday, I find myself thinking, that is not what it looked like in the catalog. Inevitably, I start critiquing my non-washboard stomach, which despite my efforts, refuses to lay flat like a good little tummy. Then I move to my biggest nemesis: my thighs. First off, I am bow legged, so if I ever wear anything like a maxi-dress, a curve forgiving style that is super cute and flattering on so many women, I end up looking like the Liberty Bell. Something, that unless you have some sort of strange bell fetish, is not an attractive look.

I also have...gasp...cellulite. I don't want to have it. I hate every last bit of it. I've used every cellulite cream, natural detox drink, and massage therapy you can think of to get id of the tiny dimples that plague my thighs,  but nonetheless, there it is spiting me, saying things like, "Did you really need that cookie, Thunder Thighs?" or "Why don't you put a little more sugar in you tea, Tons of Fun?" 

The bright red swimsuit against my pale skin seemed to make my large thighs glow. That's when for some stupid reason, I decided I wasn't being tortured enough so I turned around to see ...B.O.B. There he was in all his glory peeking out from the corners of my bathing suit like a big ol' beach ball. I let out a sigh. Months and months of intense working out and I still had big legs, a less than perfect stomach, and of course, B.O.B. 

As I stood there debating whether to send my little red bikini back and exchange it for a one piece...or more accurately, a muumuu, I heard the news anchor cut to the terrorist attack on the Boston Marathon. The reporter was talking about the many people that were killed and injured and how a man in the midst of his own tragedy, somehow managed to give an accurate description of the perpetrators.  This hero, which helped Boston's finest correctly identify the bombers, lost his legs during the explosion. As did many others, including a dancer.

I looked back in the mirror at my legs. Instead of seeing these large, flabby, cellulite ridden appendages, I saw strong, long, fully functioning, beautiful legs that allow me to run, dance, walk, chase, catch, and smear birthday cake frosting all over the faces of my nieces and nephews. And you know what? That birthday cake tasted damn good. I may not have have the perfect body, but I do allow myself to enjoy the occasional spur of the moment decision to split fries with my sister or share a hot fudge sundae with a broken-hearted friend.

No matter what you are going through, remember, there is always someone that would do anything to have your life, your family, your spirit, your perfectly imperfect legs or your B.O.B. 

Life isn't about perfection. It's about perspective.