It’s time to check in, about body checking.
That’s not a sporting reference to Ice hockey by the way. It’s that rather nasty habit that I am trying to beat, of toddling up the mirror, and studying my body from crown to shoes. I stand, staring gormlessly, giving myself wrinkles, and criticizing every last section of skin. And I mean every last section.
Spinning around and around, glancing over my shoulder, leaning forward, standing with hands on hips, around waist, backside, front-side, side to side, revolving like a mime artist, or lost catalog model. But minus the “Love the camera baby”‘ and pouting. The only pouting going on is of the grumpy, self critical type, and there is no love in this display, just negative thoughts a-go-go, the loudest of them scream:
“I hate my body, I am just not good enough”
Pull your stomach in, and blow it out again. Pinch an inch and clench a fist, and pull a lump of flesh, and twist. It’s the worlds most uncomfortable self massage technique and has none of the therapeutic relaxation value. Hell, lets face it, if you weren’t feeling bad enough about yourself before you started, surfing on a paranoia high over to the mirror to check yourself, well by the time you’re done ripping yourself to shreds, the problem has just expanded to the size of The Goodyear Blimp, and it’s no co-ink-e-dink that the same has happened to the size of your backside.
There’s nothing like staring at your belly curve for half an hour, to distort your perspective of it. You went to the mirror, feeling just a slightly pudgy loser, and when you leave your self loathing session you are feeling like The Pilsbury Dough Boy. But how realistic is this? Really?
People are determined. I’m as stubborn as a mule, and I like to be right. I need to be right. And if I go to that mirror seeking the fat on my body, god damn, I will find it. Oh yes. I will stand there just as long as it takes to get my quota of rolls and lumps and wobbly bits. Every last inch of skin will be investigated, interrogated and berated until I find what I am looking for.
Then once I have found it? Well how the hell can I possibly stop seeing it? It’s been identified and flagged up to me, and suddenly my clothes are tighter, my gait ungainly, my clumsy slightly lumbering stature is amplified to the world. So what else can I do? But go back to the mirror? Has it got bigger? Has it got smaller? Is it wider, rounder, looser? If I jump does it jiggle? If I stand on one leg and breath in, will it disappear? If I lurk long enough in front of the mirror, I see a stranger. How will I ever get to look like {Insert unrealistic image of self here}? But on a side note, where did that mental image come from anyway? At what point did I sign up to try and become someone 2 inches taller, and two stone lighter, and brunette, and mixed race? I don’t remember actively choosing that goal myself, but that picture pops up all the same. And now, I’ll certainly never get there, but I don’t even look like me anymore either.
And when we don’t look like ourselves? Who do we turn to for comfort? How do we rectify the mortal sin of having a body with a layer of flesh to keep us from hypothermia? ED that’s who. ED will help you get rid of those unwanted rolls, those unwanted pounds, those unwanted feelings, those unwanted friends, that unwanted complicated life.
So the key is to put the self criticism down, and step away from the looking glass. Stop those wandering hands from rummaging at your waist. Stop stroking your ribs like a dog with a bone. Don’t compare your legs to the woman sitting next to you on the bus. If you keep looking for fat then you ignore all the places that are thin. The fat is an eye magnetic, a tractor beam, drawing your gaze and leaving you wanting. Leaving you blind to smiles, and shining eyes, and deaf to reality.
Cut the tape measure, cut the ties to ED, and cut the crap. If you seek then you will find. So stop seeking.
It’s time to check in, about body checking.
That’s not a sporting reference to Ice hockey by the way. It’s that rather nasty habit that I am trying to beat, of toddling up the mirror, and studying my body from crown to shoes. I stand, staring gormlessly, giving myself wrinkles, and criticizing every last section of skin. And I mean every last section.
Spinning around and around, glancing over my shoulder, leaning forward, standing with hands on hips, around waist, backside, front-side, side to side, revolving like a mime artist, or lost catalog model. But minus the “Love the camera baby”‘ and pouting. The only pouting going on is of the grumpy, self critical type, and there is no love in this display, just negative thoughts a-go-go, the loudest of them scream:
“I hate my body, I am just not good enough”
Pull your stomach in, and blow it out again. Pinch an inch and clench a fist, and pull a lump of flesh, and twist. It’s the worlds most uncomfortable self massage technique and has none of the therapeutic relaxation value. Hell, lets face it, if you weren’t feeling bad enough about yourself before you started, surfing on a paranoia high over to the mirror to check yourself, well by the time you’re done ripping yourself to shreds, the problem has just expanded to the size of The Goodyear Blimp, and it’s no co-ink-e-dink that the same has happened to the size of your backside.
There’s nothing like staring at your belly curve for half an hour, to distort your perspective of it. You went to the mirror, feeling just a slightly pudgy loser, and when you leave your self loathing session you are feeling like The Pilsbury Dough Boy. But how realistic is this? Really?
People are determined. I’m as stubborn as a mule, and I like to be right. I need to be right. And if I go to that mirror seeking the fat on my body, god damn, I will find it. Oh yes. I will stand there just as long as it takes to get my quota of rolls and lumps and wobbly bits. Every last inch of skin will be investigated, interrogated and berated until I find what I am looking for.
Then once I have found it? Well how the hell can I possibly stop seeing it? It’s been identified and flagged up to me, and suddenly my clothes are tighter, my gait ungainly, my clumsy slightly lumbering stature is amplified to the world. So what else can I do? But go back to the mirror? Has it got bigger? Has it got smaller? Is it wider, rounder, looser? If I jump does it jiggle? If I stand on one leg and breath in, will it disappear? If I lurk long enough in front of the mirror, I see a stranger. How will I ever get to look like {Insert unrealistic image of self here}? But on a side note, where did that mental image come from anyway? At what point did I sign up to try and become someone 2 inches taller, and two stone lighter, and brunette, and mixed race? I don’t remember actively choosing that goal myself, but that picture pops up all the same. And now, I’ll certainly never get there, but I don’t even look like me anymore either.
And when we don’t look like ourselves? Who do we turn to for comfort? How do we rectify the mortal sin of having a body with a layer of flesh to keep us from hypothermia? ED that’s who. ED will help you get rid of those unwanted rolls, those unwanted pounds, those unwanted feelings, those unwanted friends, that unwanted complicated life.
So the key is to put the self criticism down, and step away from the looking glass. Stop those wandering hands from rummaging at your waist. Stop stroking your ribs like a dog with a bone. Don’t compare your legs to the woman sitting next to you on the bus. If you keep looking for fat then you ignore all the places that are thin. The fat is an eye magnetic, a tractor beam, drawing your gaze and leaving you wanting. Leaving you blind to smiles, and shining eyes, and deaf to reality.
Cut the tape measure, cut the ties to ED, and cut the crap. If you seek then you will find. So stop seeking.