Sometimes I can’t help but be sad over my size. Sometimes I don’t like what I see.
It’s as if my body is the mountain I have to chisel down in order to get where I need to be. I fight against every pucker of fabric, every sidelong glance during a race, when all I’m really fighting is my self-worth; beating myself down until there is nothing but the number of my waistband.
There is a constant battle between the folds of my stomach and my feminist-book-binge-self which chides, “I am more than my size.” No matter what I eat, how far I run, or how the scale slowly ticks downward – the real battle is between my heart and this world telling me otherwise. Do I go back to where there’s nothing left but to struggle and sweat with a constant heartache as companionship? Or do I push the veil aside and stand on my stocky, strong legs, declaring that this body is not a prison.
This body is a temple, housing the ability to grow forward, not immovable. Never immovable.
The Librarian Barbarian 
I don’t want to go back to self loathing. I think I’ve come a long way, and yet, as you say, it only takes a pair of pants to not fit in a size that *SHOULD* fit to send me tumbling back to basics: Temple. Always been TEMPLE. Always will be TEMPLE as purpose for being.
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Kathleen, Yes! It was a back-to-basics weekend and I couldn’t get past The Number. Rather than give up, which is how I normally deal with a setback, I decided to just take a deep breath and keep marching forward. Small victories.
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I like this. Good article sweetie.
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I had to fight something similar last week after I got my body measurements taken. After seeing what my weight was, and that it’s gone back over the double-century mark, I had to come to terms with it. It was a process to keep reminding myself that I am not the triple digit number on the scale readout.
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Yes, it doesn’t take much to get sidetracked! I like the contrast of Prison vs Temple, (confinement/freedom; no escape/open to come and go), very appropriate. XO
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Amen!
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