I was born with the metabolism of a humpback whale. I sailed right over the “awkwardly skinny” phase and landed full force into “painfully medium.” Fortunately for me, my lovely parents taught me how to maintain a proper equilibrium: eat healthy, be active, and don’t be an obsessive psycho. And my mom, whose exact body I inherited, helped me learn to live by a powerful phrase: You can take care of your body, but you can’t fix an ugly face.
I learned to prioritize athletics and working out. Not because I enjoy it, but because it is necessary to calm the beast that is my inner fat kid. I went about my life, doing the things I do, never really wavering from the body that I developed in seventh grade. I had made peace with my sturdy, unchanging frame.
And then I turned 23.
I swear to God, if I smell a chocolate chip cookie, I gain three pounds. A night of drinking? That’ll cost you a button on your skinny jeans tomorrow. By absolutely zero stretch of the imagination am I in any capacity — mentally, financially, emotionally, or logistically — ready to have a child right now. Yet, there are my shiny new child-bearing hips, here to argue otherwise. Really? Go home, dude. Nobody wants you here.
What is happening to me? I never used to feel bad about an off day or putting sugar in my coffee. Now? If my coffee is anything but black, I can guarantee I’ll have fat face in pictures later that day.
I’ve been trying to fight this metabolic plunge. I go to the gym at least five times a week, I eat like a god damn bird, and I still only have this profusely mediocre “normal weight range” body to show for it. It’s bullshit. And guess what? This lifestyle is trash. I mean, I fucking hate kale. It sucks. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that I can feel the vitamin K pulsing through my veins because all I can feel are these sandpaper leaves cutting wounds down my esophagus. But if I had a sandwich for lunch? You bet your ass I’d be puffing out of my shirt tomorrow. This is not a life I chose.
And listen: I’m a twenty-something female who lives in New York City, so it should go without saying that I’m all for #feminism and #bodypositivity. All bodies deserve love, every body is a bikini body, so on and so forth. But am I wrong to think that it was easier to love myself before, I don’t know, my love handles grew love handles?
Do I need to up my gym sessions to twice a day? Should I emulate Khloe and drink only #FitTea? Should I quit my job to become a personal trainer so I have no choice but to toss some weights around all day and eat only lean meat and steamed broccoli? I guess I could stop drinking, but on the other hand, it’s laughable to think I would ever get laid again without the guise of at least four vodka sodas. So, hard pass.
Instead, I’ll plan out my incredibly lackluster meals of in-season vegetables and flavorless chicken breasts. I’ll continue to curse my gym alarm every morning, but go anyway and pray that one day I will transform into one of the many hot moms who seem to live at my gym. I’ll continue to ogle their Michelle Obama arms and wonder why I was born into a life of mediocrity. I’ll continue my life as I have, and I will pray to God every night that all the skinny girls posing with fucking pizza slices get fat, too.*
*Just kidding, you’re beautiful as you are. Just, like, be beautiful a few feet away from me. .