Before we begin, I’d just like to acknowledge the awkwardness of the title, and assure you that this post is not referring to THAT kind of self-love.
No, this post is more about a confession: I like my body.
Yes, I think my body is functionally adequate. It carries heavy things. It runs when it’s being chased. It produces waste at a satisfactory rate and it stretches to accommodate a second helping. Were I to choose this path, it could produce an infant. It is on the whole a competent machine.
But that isn’t what I am talking about. Yes, I appreciate my body’s abilities. But I also straight up think my body is great-looking. And I don’t care who knows it.
I like my small boobs. I like my wide, womanly hips that sway when I walk. I like my large linebacker shoulders with the ripples of muscle that appear when I move. I like my thick, trunklike thighs, and the way they jiggle when I twerk in the shower when nobody’s looking. In short:
If you saw what I look like, you might question WHY, exactly, I think that my body is attractive. After all – I do not look like Adriana Lima. I am not tan. I do not have prominent cheekbones. My stomach is not flat. If you put me on the cover of a magazine, the stylist would dress me in something with a high, forgiving waistline and blow my hair out to ridiculous proportions to temper the effect of my giraffe-like neck.
In other words, I am not CONVENTIONALLY attractive.
People are sometimes confused by my refusal to apologize for myself. They get confused. They say, “Oh, it’s so cool that you love your body despite its flaws!”
But those people are thinking about it entirely the wrong way. I don’t love my body DESPITE those characteristics. I love my body BECAUSE of those characteristics, and I certainly don’t think of them as flaws. A flaw is when you constantly interrupt conversations or refuse to pay with anything other than nickels. A flaw is not having frizzy hair. You probably look fly, anyway.
They think I’m a narcissist. I’m not a narcissist; I don’t think I’m better than anyone, and I don’t think I’m perfect. I just don’t have a problem waking up in the morning and telling myself I look hella cute.
They also suggest I am delusional. I am not delusional. I don’t think that I look like Beyonce. I don’t see Beyonce when I look in the mirror. I see myself – and I am totally cool with it.
Funnily enough, being a supermodel is not actually a requirement for loving your body. It is okay to love yourself even if you have been so unfortunate as to not be incarnated as Heidi Klum. And even more importantly, so does everybody else.
Everybody has the right to like their body, and them being comfortable with themselves isn’t hurting you. It isn’t your job to worry about someone else’s appearance or tell them that liking it isn’t correct. Beauty is ephemeral anyway; five hundred years ago we were all plucking our hairlines to get that sexy bald forehead that drives the gentleman wild. Being happy with yourself is all that truly matters.