My Body

     My body has never been the love of my life. It’s more like the guy I’ve always known was kind, patient, and pretty cute, but to whom I should really hold off on committing.

     There has to be a better version out there somewhere.

     “Out there.”

     I used to sleep with a particularly fit guy. One time during pillow talk I said, “You’re so hot. You know, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a really nice body.”

     “You don’t have to wonder,” He mumbled.

     My heart swelled three sizes in preparation of his inevitable response. “You’re perfect just the way you are,” he would surely say.

     “You just have to work out a lot. It’s like a choice,” he encouraged.

     Deflated.

     The aspirational body is a betrayal of the self. It’s like hating the apartment you have simply because there are penthouses out there.

     I’m sure just as many divorces happen in penthouses as in fifth-floor walkups.

     My body ran a marathon. It portaged a canoe over two miles. It has been with me through every step in every room I’ve entered since birth. But the process of falling in love with it still feels slow and arduous.

     I just have to work at it a lot. It’s like a choice.