I am approaching my 40th birthday. Whenever that comes up, I think to myself “I really need to start gymming”. I was overweight even before I fell pregnant. The pregnancy just kind of established the weight. So, I have been battling my weight for years.
But this morning, in the shower, I thought, the best gift I could give myself for my 40th birthday, would be if I were to learn to accept myself as I am. Flab and all. It’s a lovely thought. So, I have started small. Every time I see my reflection in a mirror, I announce that I love myself.
So far so good. This battle of the bulge colours most of my life, even in to my childhood. When I was 13 I went on a liqui fruit juice and provita biscuit diet. It lasted one day. I was devastated. When I look at photo’s of myself at that age, I am shocked. I wasn’t overweight at all. I wonder if I had body dysmorphic disorder? Had or have?
It’s funny because I’ve never been happy with what I see in the mirror. I just cant see myself the way the world sees me. That self hatred runs deep. It’s generational. If it wasn’t my weight, it would be something else. There’d be some impossible body changing thing I would need to do before my 40th.
It’s ridiculous really. I am trying to talk myself out of it. But it all makes so much sense. I am getting older. I need to achieve something in order to mark the occasion. In order to deserve being 40. Ridiculous. I know. But that’s the kind of script that plays out in my mind.
I like to shift my focus to what I’m grateful for. My health, for one. My body, as a vessel, performs sterling work. It get’s me through the days with hardly any qualms or hassles. Smooth sailing. I am among 25% of the world population considered rich, simply for having food in the fridge and a roof over my head.
And I run a successful podcast. Take that, 40!