I’d like to think I’m pretty good at kicking my own ass. That is to say, I’ve perfected the art of being overly critical and judgmental on myself. I am often satisfied with what I accomplish, but rarely fully impressed by it. I’d say this past year has been a rebuilding period. Some days (or weeks or months) I think the foundation is looking good. Every now and again a flood rushes in and puts cracks in my foundation, so there I am again, filling them back in, patching them up.
I have to post this for my own acknowledgment, because, well, I’ve succeeded at kicking my own ass in a more literal (and by that I mean physical) way than I have ever achieved in all my 24 years of life:
How do you like me now?
Yes, that’s me.
Caption courtesy of song lyrics by The Heavy, “How do you like me now?” Really, it’s my middle finger to all my former insecurities.
The funny thing is, and this is completely irrelevant to today but something that has actually been on my mind for quite a while, I kind of resent the attention. See, I’ve been told on numerous occasions by numerous people that I am a beautiful woman. This is nothing to complain about, don’t mistake me. And I think people get annoyed with me when I sort of shrug it off when I don’t believe me. The truth is, I don’t really care. I worry that people are too often drawn to me because of the way I look; they see things in me that aren’t really there or they stuck on what they see and forget to look beyond that. I worry that I’m not being taken seriously or treated fairly. This may sound trivial or trite, or you may think how dare she complain about such folly, but think about it. If someone is seduced by my looks and not by my brain, can you imagine how shitty it feels the moment they get to know me and decide I’m not actually worth their time?
I’ve been pushing myself hard. I’ve spent years hiding under generous clothing, feeling ashamed in a bathing suit, and just being all around uncomfortable in my own skin. This past year has been entirely about regaining my self; discovering my self, controlling my looks, my hair, my style, my voice, my body, my mind. Santan and I made our 4-mile mark yesterday. We didn’t stop once (except for when she suddenly hit the breaks to dump a giant load in the middle of the sidewalk–that was pleasant). In the past, running was a laborious method of torture to some degree, dragging myself out the door to lament the few blocks I managed to jog down before my air ways pinched so tightly that I had to stop and weeze for a few minutes. Running today is a liberty. It’s an outlet. It’s a welcome escape from the hours I’m stuck in a chair, plugging in my mood music and tuning out my life for miles. MILES. I can run miles! I’m seriously dreading the summer heat when this won’t be an option for me anymore. I guess I’ll have to discover a passion for swimming.
