This Is Me.

          I get it, okay? I’m not meant to be in photographs or on TV, and, honestly, the idea of it freaks me out so I have no problem with this. I get it. I do. I’m tall and freckly and have thick, dark, tangled, curly hair. I’m big boned with big muscles, a narrow waist but flaring hips, thick stubby fingers and inflexible joints that crack when I move. I’m no delicate beauty. I’m no model or prom queen. I’m the too-tall 5^th grade girl in the back row forced to stand with all the boys in the class picture. I’m the only white third grader with an afro, because Mom didn't know what to do with the curly mess. I’m the first to start her period, and the last to start shaving her legs. I’m the nonathletic, uncoordinated, nerd. And I love it.

I love my wild mane of hair. I love that I freckle in the sun. I love that while other girls whine about getting boob jobs, I struggle to find a bikini top that covers. I love that I look like a woman. I’m curvy and sexy, and I’m not ashamed to say that, but having some hips mean having stretch marks from the growth spurt that caused them. Full, thick legs come with dimply, ripples of cellulite. Delicate looking porcelain skin means a sickly complexion, when summer starts, and does about as much good as plastic wrap when it comes to hiding spider veins.

I know that I’m healthy. I know that I push my body. I know that I’m strong. I know that being curvy doesn't mean being fat. I know what I can do. I know, that to have this beautiful shape that I love, I have to be willing to take the whole package, but you don’t. You assume I just don’t run quite fast enough, that I put the weights down too early, that I’m too stubborn to take your advice and change my ways, that one indulgence means I’m a quitter, and that the reason I'm not an Olympian, is because I'm lazy… like it’s actually possible for one person to be flawless, to be idolized in every way, by everyone. I could work myself to death to lose every inch of fat and have smooth, straight legs and an impossibly thin belly, which would more than likely also entitle me to a flat chest, no ass, and the overall shape of a twelve-year-old boy. No thanks.

Everything I do, the decisions I make, how I chose to look, I do it for me. I don’t do it to look like you or your idea of who I’m supposed to be. I don’t do it to win anything or anyone. I do it because I want to. So continue to tell me what I should be doing differently to look more like you, and I’ll tell you that I’m not you, I never will be you, and I have no interest in being you. For every flaw you see in me, I can show you five more things that you wish you had. Criticize all you want, but this is me... every crease, dimple, and bump, and I’d rather be stuck with those last five pounds forever, than to look like anyone but me.