waaaaaaaay too much information

 

hi. my name is sherry and i hate my body.

well. that’s mostly true. two things can be true at the same time.

i appreciate my body. she’s healthy. no broken bones. no chronic illness. no major issues. i even managed to miss the genetic conditions. this body? she’s literally supported me through sports, babies, countless bruises, bumps, and falls. almost all my sick days have been for kids. even covid only took me down for 2 days. i appreciate her strength and resilience. i appreciate that she’s held it together for me this long. if you know how clumsy i am, you’ll know what a testament that is. 

and also, i HATE my body.

i’ve been a size 20 since about 2006. i’ve been up to 285 lbs and down to 200 lbs. still a size 20 at both ends of the literal scale. i’m too tall for regular sizes, too poor for tall sizes. my feet are an obnoxious size that only recently started existing in the shoe world and only at one specific shoe store. my options are ugly or uglier when it comes to footwear. my torso is weirdly long, my waist is in the wrong spot, my hips are generously wide, my butt…well…as my mom always put it: “...you have a shelf butt.” still not 100% sure what that means; i’m for sure not a kardashian balancing a champagne bottle on it. i’m covered in stretch marks from two babies (thankfully very faded now), and, worse to me, acne scars.

oh, everyone gets acne when they’re a teenager.

i get it. i do. poor suzie had a small pimple on her forehead before the prom. oh no! i haven’t been a teenager in…well…it’s offensive to do the math. it was a year that started in 19. so. a while ago. 

but i’ve had and still have deep, cystic acne since my early teens. EVERYWHERE. jaw line? yup. there wasn’t a coverup strong enough in the 90’s. so much for COVERgirl. it didn’t cover shit. back/chest? yup. want to wear a cute low cut top? fuck off. want to wear spaghetti straps? in what universe?

and, worst of all, thighs.

how do you explain to a partner: “...no, that’s not an STD, just a really gruesome looking deep tissue cyst that’s been with me since 2007.”

go to my regular doctor, they tell me to see a dermatologist. dermatologist tells me to see an obgyn. obgyn tells me to see a derm or a gp. and NONE of them can help me. i did that loop a grand total of twice before giving up. mostly because who the fuck has the insurance and appointment time to end up where you started, just more embarrassed? 

lotions, scrubs, dry brushes, massage, shaving/waxing, NOT shaving/waxing, dietary changes, exercise programs, topical medications, prescribed medications. i’ve spent THOUSANDS, and i literally mean THOUSANDS of dollars on my skin.

why do i bring this up?

more information than anyone ever wanted to know about my thighs?

i’m 45. i’m tired of hating my body.

i’ve finally reached the point where i don’t mind looking in the mirror in the morning.

from the waist up.

my face *finally* mostly matches between my brain and my reflection. it’s glorious. no more stranger danger while i’m putting on my mascara. no more bracing for the worst and looking away as quickly as possible. no more wanting to cry from seeing my dad staring back at me.

editor’s note: my dad was a very handsome gentleman; he was able to grow a glorious moustache. i do not want to be a handsome gentleman with a glorious moustache.

but i’m 45 now. i’m at my hormonal peak. my sex drive is through the roof. i finally look pretty. i finally feel pretty.

with my clothes on.

it’s so annoying. it’s so frustrating. it’s so embarrassing.

hot tub? sure. let me grab my mom swim suit with the skirt. summer time? since shorts are only made in “up the ass crack” length these days, pants it is. cute sun dress? let me ruin it by wearing some shorts under it just in case. bedtime? where are my sweats?

well, to be fair, even if i had good thighs i would still wear sweats to bed. i refuse to risk being outside naked when there’s a fire.

anyway. childhood fears and family trauma aside, always covered from the waist down.

how do you get over hating yourself? how do you learn to accept the things that stubbornly refuse to change?

i haven’t figured it out yet. i’m just waiting for menopause to hit. maybe THEN i’ll finally be able to outgrow it.

women talk about reaching the magical age of giving zero fucks. i’m 90% there. when does that last 10% kick in?

as usual, there’s no point, just me oversharing on the internet to the one’s of people who stumble into this strange little corner of my brain.

manifesting 2026

it’s 14 days in to the new year and my journal has the date written down 4 times with only one actual worded entry.

off to a smashing start.

to be fair, 2025 was an unusually prolific year for journaling. not so much for blogging, but better than the covid years.

it’s not that my brain has slowed down, at all. it’s that my hands have drastically slowed down (fucking secretary hands anyway) and my ability to hold a thought long enough to actually chase it down to a logical end AND RECORD SAID THOUGHT is almost non-existent. i joke about my swiss cheese brain, but it’s honestly less of a joke and more of a huge annoyance.

i haven’t done any new year manifestation work. i haven’t done any resolutions. i’ve had thoughts of goals. i’ve had thoughts of manifestations. i know i have. well, i’m mostly certain i have. at some point, i’m pretty sure, i think.

fucking swiss cheese brain.

they say that 2026, the year of the horse, is the year you get to take off. ride into the sunset. 2025, the year of the snake, was all about shedding what doesn’t belong in your life anymore (did plenty of that) so that in the year of the horse you can ride forward into your future unencumbered. if you didn’t do the necessary work, 2026 is the year you get drug along by the horse. i’ve seen just enough westerns to know that’s not the vibe i’m going for. fingers crossed all the personal work in 2025 was enough.

the last time i was on an *actual* horse was approximately 1991 (?) at camp gilead. if the name surprises you, please remember i was raised in an insanely devout baptist/evangelical household and while the hand maiden’s tale wasn’t a thing yet, the ideology was already being deeply programmed into my brain. camp gilead: christian kids camp complete with emotional nighttime fire circle jesus calls and overly zealous youth pastor energy counselors. and also, horseback riding.

i’m a little rusty when it comes to horses of the physical and metaphorical kind.

what kind of sunset do i want to ride into? what am i hoping to be unencumbered in my pursuit of?

i should manifest a nice caciocavallo podolico brain: rich, nutty, spicy with a hint of sweetness, firm and smooth. enough of this this swiss cheese bullshit. i want to be unencumbered in my pursuit of thought.

but really, what DO i want out of 2026? assuming the world makes it through 2026. which…at this point…maybe we’ll just focus on Q1.

i want to manifest bills that GO AWAY, not bills that instantly get replaced by other bills. paid off the last stella vet bill and instantly had a bill of equal value added to split out my rent deposit. paid off a credit card and had to open a les schwab account the same month. cut my pet expenses, my utility bill went up. i want bills that GO AWAY. this swap out plan is for sure not it. i don’t want anything else finding new ways for money to exit my accounts. i want money to find its’ way INTO my account please.

i want to manifest a closet full of clothes that aren’t situational. i want clothes that are comfortable, in good condition, no matter what day it is. i’m so tired of the morning jenga puzzle- i can wear these leggings if i wear something over it long enough to cover mouse holes. i can wear that dress as long as i don’t mind wearing sneakers with it and looking like a bad melanie griffith 80’s movie. i can wear that jewelry if i haven’t had any salt in the last week and i’m not even thinking about being bloated. i can wear these jeans if i have the right underwear clean otherwise i have high waisted underwear and low cut jeans AND WHO THE FUCK BROUGHT BACK LOW CUT JEANS? i can wear these shoes if i’m not doing any walking today. i can wear that coat as long as i don’t need pockets. it’s exhausting having body dysmorphia that makes you hate yourself and everything you put on your body ON THE BEST DAY. mix in all the fucking hoops and the jumping and the planning and the fucking endless contingencies. it’s so fucking exhausting. i’m mentally drained before 8 am. gods help me if i’m packing an overnight bag to stay at my partner’s house. you want me to plan who she’s going to be tomorrow? i barely have a grip on today and you want me to know who she’s going to be and what clothes are going to work TOMORROW?

i want to manifest  insurance. all the insurance. the brain, the eyes, the teeth, AND the body. i want ALLLLLLLL the insurance. i’m tired of rationing contacts. hoping for no cavities. patching my broken brain with ideas from my broken brain. ignoring all the aches and pains and creaks and pops and mystery bruises that hopefully don’t mean anything more than clumsiness and forgetting i rearranged furniture. i want to go to GOOD doctors. like, actually good ones. not “D’s get degrees” doctors. i want doctors that know more diagnostic words than “stress,” “weight,” or “being female.” i want to know that getting sick won’t be a death sentence. i want to be able to do things like preventative care, routine screenings, regular check up’s, scheduled cleanings, annual exams. maybe, really shooting for the stars, maybe even massage and chiropractic care. a girl can dream. 

i want to manifest time off. actual, real time off. not a holiday when the store(s) is(are) closed. not a sick day. actual time off, maybe, going really wild, a vacation? haven’t had one of those since 2017. time to go somewhere. see something new. experience more than the same 4 restaurants and businesses. stare at different walls. drink whisky in a different bar in a different state (or country). i want time to relax. breathe. not have to count how many hours are in the sick/safe bank and how many i need to keep in case i get actual sick vs how many i can afford to take off. i want to go somewhere and be able to enjoy myself, not worry what day it is, not worry about how taking these days off is going to make the rest of the year stressful. i’ve been working 6 days a week (some of those running into 10 hour days) for the last year. that’s a long time to pull 6 days a week. i’m ready for a break.

i want to manifest laughter. calm. joy. experiences. learning. sharing. comfort. happiness. abundance. support. love. friendship. growth. i want to manifest days at home making pasta and breads and recipes. nights out experiencing art and music and theater and community. i want to have sun soaked afternoons at terrible baseball games and lake days and adventures. evenings snuggled up with books and the attention span to read more than three paragraphs at a time. nights of peaceful, restorative, snore free sleep.

that all feels like too much and barely scratching the surface at the same time.

anyway. there’s a start at least.