Acceptance Rant

In and other uncomfortable topics, First World Problems, R[evol]ution, Somewhat disjointed rant... on August 28, 2013 at 5:23 pm

I’ve been on a kick to love myself more.  I’ve been through so many phases of this: the let me be chunky if I want to phase; the let’s eat clean phase; the no more bread phase; the Marilyn Monroe phase; the I’m not buying anymore clothes until I lose weight phase.

Now (surprise, surprise, surprise) I am at the RANT and pardon my french phase.

Firstly, I am bound and determined to accept my booty the way it is. Yeah, I have a few dimples and a little jiggle. It’s rounder at the bottom than it is at the top. I DON’T CARE WHAT ANYONE SAYS….no amount of squatting is going to make my derriere look like the sizable assets of Deelishis or Jennifer Lopez. Why should I have to be Deelishis’s booty twin? Why can’t I just respect my booty and their respective booties? Every booty was not built the same. Google it, and I assure you that you will find millions of pictures of thousands of booties and each one will be a little different. Friends, I ask you: does every booty not deserve respect for what it is?

Secondly, cauliflower pizza is not pizza. Gedouddahere with that mess. When the battle is between the quality of my pizza versus my daily calorie intake my: either I choose not to eat crappy pizza (I assume that everyone understands that a pizza in which the crust and toppings are all cauliflower = crappy pizza) or my calorie intake gets the Fredo Corleone treatment.

Thirdly, I’m not a mom but when I become one: what’s so wrong with mommy hips and breasts? What’s with the recent rise of the anti-child birth body movement? Prince (or Duke or Viscount or Earl or whatever) George was literally TWENTY FOUR HOURS OLD and people were pointing out the fact that Duchess Kate’s tummy was protruding. She’d just pushed a cantaloupe through a garden hose….cut her some (royal) slack. Obviously, there is nothing wrong with getting into banging shape after you’ve had kids….but, what about those whose bodies literally change forever?

Fourthly, read my lips: I. DO. NOT. DRINK. A. MEAL. You know when I drink meals? When I had my wisdom teeth out. That’s about it. Do not believe the hype about these various shakes. Some of them are better than others, but NONE OF THEM taste as great as fresh and well-prepared food. Nom. Nom. Nom. That’s the sound of me chewing because I DON’T DRINK MY MEALS.

Fifthly, a walk around the block is exercise. So is a vigorous shopping trip. Screw anyone who says otherwise.

Sixthly, not everyone has a six pack. Yeah, yeah. I am saying this to make myself feel better. But, seriously. Even Dwayne Johnson (his resplendent excellence formerly known as The Rock) doesn’t in all of his tan glory have a six pack. Despite his lack of a six-pack, he seems to be doing ok for himself, what with the movies and the loveliness and all. Light bulb: maybe every belly–like every booty–is made a little differently. Get off my back about abs, Shape magazine.

Seventhly, what are raspberry ketones and whyyyyyyyyyy should I take them? Seriously, I can’t remember what all of these things are and what they do and how they help and what they hurt. Soy, for instance. Do you remember the soy craze of the ’90s and early ’00s? There was soy EVERYTHING: milk, chips, burgers, sausage, ground beef, smoothies, yogurt…. But, now, we find out that soy has estrogen (or releases estrogen or makes estrogen) and that messes up our hormones and something else that I can’t remember. Oh, ballz. I can’t remember.

Eighthly, pardon me while I walk down the block (exercise, FTW) and grab lunch (because I don’t drink meals).

Love-Peace-Booty Respect


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