Fixing our frames of mind is an omnificent overdose. Shall no one ever shrink you to shame your superpowers. You ought to note that you are endlessly as momentous as the first shooting star your eyes can’t erase. It’s such a dame of sky darlings, training your thoughts to believe in the supernal salve from which you’re meant to lustrously shine. The worst felonies among our planet are caused by the harmful emissions coming from humanity’s scrutiny. A laundry list of judgments about what we ‘must’ look like or be are born, bred, and born again. While often unfathomable defilements, such as to our climate continues, it’s the arc of self-desecration that hacks my heart (but not at all by any agilely artful means). I believe that it’s essential that we’re parsing pollution of any kind ~ physical, emotional, spiritual, and mentally mixed up to ill perspectives.
Here’s a rich riddle for ya: What’s always more overweight than any single creature ever could be? Anyone else’s idea of plump being unfashionable. Babies aren’t conceived intending to inherit self-esteem issues. I think my pudginess is merely jealous of the svelte leggy girl that roamed before she had to figure out what to do with those new boobs to hips to buttocks blooming. I’ve spent multiple primes of my journey letting others’ opinions hijack my joy. Especially since I’m a devout disciple of the church of happiness, someone raking me over their version of living coals for what they’ve decided my body and all of its movements have to align. That’s a stout chronicle of crazy. Besides, our archives of many eras toasting thicker beauties as lucrative comparatively. Life aches to be lived to the fullest, not to the most doomed.
Are you paying overpriced rent to follow the screeching when you step upon the scale? How about buying into the preaching from your family, politicians on tv, and the price for your ‘affordable’ bite-sized Gucci that gives you false pretense that you’re attending to any ‘real’ purpose. Armies of heady fatty tissues bulge inside society’s brain. They’ve taught us to be fearful of bigger babes and existing without bling. Born from two flabless parents, the spoils of corpulent conniving never crossed my upbringing. If anything, they were severely shunned. There didn’t appear overly rotten pockets in my Southern, by way of Germanic-Irish roots. Although, no one ever explained that the entire world ate the poisoned apple. That no country skipped the gaping glamour trap.
Now, please don’t mistake my rant as an excuse to pack on the fast foods, or other poor practices (of which I do suffer sometimes). I’m referring to carrying excess that makes me less Barbie and prone to an affluence of the fleshy huggable parts. Not realizing what you’ve done until it’s ruptured your steeze is a common needle that pierces the threads of my life. Being chubby blubbers in tandem with my expert fluency of cursing markedly when venting my fangs. Yet, it’s time to begin a new chapter. No matter stigmas of half-life, middle age, or too little too late. It should be as easy as opening the book and turning the page. A simple action of fingering the paper or swiping the screen to the next numerical leaf. However, we’re so good at making these bitty motions like an improbably challenged rearranging of the order for the moon to light our days and the sun to darken our eves. Finding an approach into the brand of bold beauty that a tipped scale wants me to fight can be lumpy.
A former lover recently reminded me of his love for my zaftigness. I hated him, then myself for a day. It stung because we’ve even permitted assumptions around compliments to get in our way. Instead of hiding, I addressed it. Taken aback, he politely listened and promptly lauded my carefree attitude agency for my body that I’m proud has consumed a portion of my footnotes. He urged a hope for the resulting increase in the possibility that I would still share pictures of myself in bathing suits. He’s one of a few totems tethering me to body positivity. Allow my only hysterias to harp on about their libidinous hulas and all of the walloping of myself when heavy for walking with a breathtaking strut. Let’s lather ourselves with luxuriant revivalist cycles. The ones that balance the gulfs of obesely greasy space with bottling enough unconditionally beneficial ilk to bridge any in-between cavities. Bring close those persons who deem your bulk as extra sexy. Period. End of sentencing. Let us own the covers of our skin as if they’re golden fleece.
May we each master the access to our Phoenix blood thriving.