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.