I am the Walrus…

body conscious

I feel odd in this skin. Perhaps because there’s currently too much of it. Mind you, I’ve learned to embrace my curves, valleys, and swells. I will never be a size 6. I can’t imagine myself as a size 6. I think the big fat head inherited from my father would topple me over. I would have to get one of those cone-dog wheelchairs to get myself about. I like my ass, too. It’s deceiving firm, so I’ve been told. However, I do not embrace mountains. I do not embrace jowls.

The first step. I’m supposed to wake myself up at 6am for a solo-gratis run, which seems laughable at 3:53am when I kind of want a chocolate covered pretzel. Something carb-y. Something asur.

The second step. Numbers. The 18th. 23 years. T-minus 10 pounds. I’ve done worse to myself, I think.

The third step? I’m not sure. Running up hill. Sweat trickling into your eyes. Inhale, exhale. BREATHE. Forgetting Wii-related knee injuries. Configuring the Nike app on my iPhone. Embracing the blur. Ce n’est pas une Flo.


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