I stand in front of the mirror and conduct my daily visual examination.
The lower part of my belly protrudes. Cellulite puckers my fleshy thighs. Spiky gray hairs sprout up along my crown. Is that a zit welling up on my chin?
I don’t hate my body. I don’t loooove it, either. It’s completely fine and usually gets the job done. I’m just sick of obsessing over it.
This is a learned trait. I don’t think I’m the only one whose mother passed down a critical gaze along with the color of the eyes that do it.
My body has always been unacceptable in some way.