My body now.
The handful of fat around my stomach; The slaloms right above the backside of my underwear– all soft and a little bright pink; The way my thighs slope inward together towards my knees; They are marked with dozens of dotted scars fading from rust to pink to purple to gray; The nape of my neck rounding out my back towards soft shoulders:
All of which would have leveled me a few years ago. While my real life ass remains alive and well, I’ve worked my metaphorical one off to renew my perspective on this body. The stories and rules (some spoken, most not) that kept me on a narrow path, hands bloodied as I clutched to a mountainside with a steep drop-off to my right. The momentarily significant seconds I spend considering my naked body each day has shifted. The lack of corners and rise of visual nuance this body now offers has– wait. No. Not ‘offers.’ ‘Offering’ to who? ‘Offering’ to meet what criteria of pass or failure? These 140 something pounds feel more aligned with what Julia Looks Like than the bones of a sharp pelvis or a breezeway between my thighs ever could come close to. Not that I ever came close to them either. They never belonged to me. I doubt they ever will.
I wear tank tops when it’s hot.
I wear a bathing suit when I swim.
I wear dresses to parade my confidence.
I wear jeans when I get shit done.
I never wear shorts because that relationship is over.
They know what they did.
I run when I want to scream about life.
I collapse into child’s pose when I feel like I might need to cry.
I go to bed grateful.