If You Can’t Love Your Body, You’re Part of the Problem

I love to work out for the way it makes me feel. Empowered. It’s not to meet some measurement standard or force myself into some body-type box that I can’t fit into.

So, I don’t want to work out today and that’s okay. I think once, or twice or three times a week I deserve to hand out a big ol’ fuck you to the societal pressures to have a body that mirrors the girls on my Instagram, the women in my magazines, the models on my TV.

I was a huge Nelly ‘Ride Wit Me’ fan in high school. I know, right? Good song. Great throwback.

But what’s he say?

“How could I tell her no? Her measurements were 36-25-34.”

What does that even mean? Well, I googled it.

Did you know that there are actually “perfect” measurements for a woman?

And I quote the internet: “ It has been said the perfect measurements for a woman are 36-24-36, and this girl is pretty close.”

What?! People can be assholes.

Just to clarify: 36 is her bust, 24 is her waist and 36 is her booty.

I don’t know what I am. Trust me, I am not racing to find out.

Here’s the truest thing I’ll ever say about women and our bodies:

If the internet isn’t going to do it (and trust me, it’s not) if pop culture isn’t going to do it, if even Nelly isn’t going to do it, then we have to. Because we are divine creatures, and it doesn’t matter how much space our bodies take up in a room. It’s how big our hearts are. It’s how far our compassion bubble extends. It’s how bright our light shines in a dark room.

Ask yourself the following:

Have you ever taken your clothes off in a room with a man and he ask you to put them back on again because you take up too little or too much of the space around his hard dick? Has he ever asked you to not put your mouth there so he could measure your hips real quick?

My guess is the answer is: “NO.”

So why the standard if it’s not applied in real life?

Don’t know. But, it’s not real life.

Real life is cellulite you can’t get rid of. It’s curvy sexy. It’s skinny sexy. It’s I didn’t make it to the gym today because I’m too balls-to-the-wall busy building a career. It’s 9-9 overtime to keep a roof over your head. It’s a man who falls for your sense of self. Who would rather kiss your insecurities than pick at them like scabs.

It’s 36-24-36 — the amount of minutes in a week you actually get to yourself. That’s real. That’s life.

Ladies. You are not your measurements. You are, however, the love you show your body.