Some people like to drown themselves in layers when they’re feeling fat. Not me. I writhe into a Chinese finger trap of a tank top and run my roll to the gym. Perceived or not, forcing my faults on display serves as motivation to minimize and ultimately eradicate.
“That is the gayest thing you have ever said,” my friend Ande declared upon hearing my masochistic coping method.
Perhaps. But I feel this approach transcends sexuality. This could be why we sometimes see absurdly obese women wearing baby Ts or tube tops far too tiny to even begin to contain their own baker’s dozen. Maybe we’ve had it all wrong. They’re not oblivious or unhygienic or suffering from reverse body dysmorphic disorder, after all. These Quarter Ton-ers should no longer be objects of disgust, but beacons of inspiration.
The one’s establishing residence at Burger King – not so much. Extrapolated data aside, though, it’s not about comparing the jiggle of your belly to that of another. However hefty the poundage from which it need be excavated, there’s a prime physique inside every one of us. This ideal shape varies from person to person; but wherever we are in the process of achieving our fitness destiny, even those of us who will never obtain rock hard abs are entitled to concrete confidence.
Barr(bell)ing a negative self-image from dampening our spirits – or our buzz as is apparent above – can be as rough as an actual work out. It’s always worth the effort, though. More rewarding than any physical activity.
Whenever I look at that picture I smile at the excess of joy on my face, not flub on my frame. In fact, I’m more grateful to be alive than to have that scarf disguising my second chin. We were captured making light of our fear, but at the time odds were in favor of us flying through the windshield over climbing out of the back seat.
I’d suggest not getting into a safety belt-less car. Especially not one with a drunk, meth addicted near-midget behind the wheel. Nothing against little people, but the fact that her feet barely reached the pedals didn’t aid our situation any.
As to our chances of survival, confidence was low; but at least we wouldn’t have asked, “Does this stretcher make me look hippy?” Un – uh, (crazy) girl (I had just met). Because DAMN – did we think we looked to die for.