A Cup of Self Love

My body is far from perfect.

Saying that sentence took a lot of effort from my already insecure and self-conscious persona. If I were the old me, I would have held the quilts more tightly over my head.

But I’m not ashamed anymore. I have stretch marks at the back of my knees from losing weight. I have pimple marks on my chin and cheeks. My hair is always astray. My thighs and arms are virtually the testaments of my binge eating and other “I-eat-my-feelings” episode. These are but just some of my humanly attributes. These are my flaws.

I have cellulite. I think I’ll always have cellulite.

But you know what; I don't know a single woman without it. Every women I know has it, every woman I have ever known has had it, and moreover, every woman I have ever seen sit on the jeepney seats in that particular way that reveals a bit of flesh, has it.

If there is a woman without it, I would like to meet her and then I would like to know what she eats. And a full breakdown of her medical history, if I could take a look at that, just for shits and giggles, well, that'd be helpful. 

The thing is, I have this suspicion, that that woman does not exist. Or maybe if there is one, then she's a unicorn - a constant source of wonder and amazement.

On top of all that nonsense my under eye circles are a force to be reckoned with and my feet are a source of great concern. They are the least maintained and often abused part of me.

But at twenty I am feeling more comfortable in my own skin than ever. Hell if I don't love this body of mine, what would become of it? If I am not completely smitten by the softness and firmness of my skin now, what will happen if I be 40 and lose all these?

I love that the most prominent scar on my body, which is on my right leg, tells a story and the stretch marks on the back of my knees testifies the pounds I shed in a short period of time. I love that I can't quite make out whether I have my mother's eyes or my father's eyes and most people I know have a different idea about it. I love that this body gets me from bed each morning, that this body does things that so surpasses my understanding. 

Certainly there are mornings that I wake and wish I wasn't five foot, three and certainly there are mornings I wish I knew what it was to have sexy hair with thinner hips and longer legs but usually I'm also wondering what it would be to have the attitude to flaunt all the things I just listed.

I lost years of my life to hiding and shying away. And then, not too terribly long ago, I realized that the desire to change my body was the least interesting thing about me.

It is not lost on me, however, that how I moved from a person consumed by wanting to be more attractive to a person who couldn't really be bothered to then a person who not only couldn't be bothered but also actually loved her body - well, that story - that trajectory is probably one of the most interesting things about me. 

You see, I think to love our bodies in a world or a society that tells us we shouldn't is a powerful act of rebellion - an even greater act of love.

It is to say I refuse to buy those magazines to see who has cellulite or who has lost weight or gained weight or grown a third head. I refuse to look at advertisements without also bringing in the knowledge that what I'm seeing is not real - it has been doctored and changed and tampered with. The vectors have been pushed and prodded to make for slimmer thighs and whiter teeth and waists so small that they don't exist in nature. It is to refuse to allow for my womanhood to be distilled to nothing more than what I look like. To refuse to buy products and spend money in search of an ideal that isn't ideal at all - a standard that is purposefully unattainable so that women just like me - smart, independent, loving women - begin to second guess and question and live in a perpetual state of doubt and plummeting self-worth and then spend money to climb out of the hole in which I was not just invited into, but pushed.

This girl, the one who is penning this post, is actually looking at her desk mirror right now and thinking, “Thank God for my body!”. When I wake up in the morning and put on my practicum uniform (which is a high-waist skirt and a white elegantly ruffled blouse), I can’t help but notice my womanliness. I am beginning to see the curves that speaks of my femininity. I can see how my arms and thighs can be cozy and welcoming. I can see how the roundness of my face can be so simple yet be so complex. How my body withstand all the feats of my daily survival…how amazing that I have it for my convenience.

I want to know what it is to live to in a world, where we, as women, say enough. enough of this nonsense. Let me add my voice to my betters and my peers who have gone before me and said, there's more to life than this, and so I love my body just as it is.