Love Me, Love My Burritos

I’ve been writing a lot about dating (and the idea of dating) lately.  But now that I don’t have much material to work with, I realized that I haven’t written much about being physically active.  When I checked to see how long it had been, I was horrified to revisit a post in which I described my body like a meat buffet.  I made it sound like my body was becoming toned and fabulous.  No.  Well, maybe it has gotten a little more toned, but I didn’t say I looked good.  I don’t like the shape of my legs, and my cellulite is most definitely not impressed by my exercise habits.  A friend said, “You won’t wear shorts because of cellulite??  Who cares?  You don’t have to look at it!”  Yes, but what about the poor people behind me?

Isn’t it ironic that most of us can be so supportive of our friends, but not so much for ourselves?

Self-acceptance doesn’t happen overnight nor does it happen just because you say you will.  It’s a conscious practice of bravery, forgiveness, and patience.  So I’m going to try and show a little more love to the parts of me that I’ve labeled as less lovable, for example, my burritos thighs and my genetically-evolved calves.  Such sturdy things.  It’s important that I not take them for granted.

As usual, the Universe has chimed in, too.  I recently attended a memorial service in which the minister talked about the value of accepting yourself as you are.   Sono mama, he said.  Which, in Japanese, translates to mean “as it is”.  And I just read my horoscope from Rob Brezsny – I swear, I can relate to 90% of what that man has to say about my sign – and I’ve been asked to reject all forms of demoralizing words and attitudes, and try positivity.  It’s uncanny.  I get the hint, Universe, I get the hint.


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