149.

the number has been weighing down on my head for the past few weeks, listing my brain from side to side, meandering back and forth between the smart girl and the sad girl.  it means nothing, really; nothing that i can truly decipher--nothing that should take root inside of me--and yet it does, it does, it does--goddamnit, it still does.

the number of the total amount of weight my body gives to this planet is 149.  last year at this time it was 142.  the seven digits in between should not matter, should not matter.  i can point to the side-effects of my drugs for the reason--or my metabolism changing--or my inability to keep a regular exercise schedule combined with my overability to eat ice cream every single night, sometimes with homemade magic shell on top.

dreamy.

i am so disappointed in myself that i still get stuck here, in the morass of surfaceness.  i still find myself judging this body of mine, this glorious thing that made two babies and has kept me upright and steady throughout 41 years.  how dare i demean it?  how dare i look away from the belly and the thighs and (god forbid) the uneven hips with the fat pockets on them?  shouldn't i stare them down, deep and deeper, and just thank them with every ounce of my soul?

would i feel this way if my breasts were bigger, to even out the look?  my 36As are barely hanging on, sliding to each side, and sometimes i imagine even one handful more could make me accept it all.  but then, i think about the fact that these little buds have fed two babies (worked hard for almost 7 years)--and they've never betrayed me with a lump or hurt me when i run.  they are just there, keeping up appearances as best as they can, and why should they accept anything but love and gratitude from me?  

they shouldn't.  not one inch of this skin should put up with this bullshit mind trip i'm on right now.

this trip is saying things like: "i can't cut my hair if i have these extra pounds on," and "this shirt doesn't look good on me anymore" and "i am unattractive". that last one yells at me the loudest.

 these thoughts are unnecessary, awkward, and ridiculous.  

i am capable of much better.

like today: standing at the counter at 6: 24 in the morning, about to wash the dishes, taking a raspberry from a forgotten lunchbox container and putting it in my mouth.  letting the soft little globes burst on my tongue, my right foot resting on my left knee, balanced.  taking one with fingers unencumbered, then another, letting them melt into each other inside in my mouth, knowing the first bit of nourishment to enter me today was nothing short of miraculous.

this is what i am of capable of--these moments of reality and grace and being able to appreciate this body for what it truly is.  if only i could sustain that--if only i all the women in my life could feel that--could stop hurting themselves by casual comments of weight loss and inadequacy--could stop comparing what is the only thing in this whole world that is truly and rightfully theirs to someone else's.

what is the point?

the only thing i should be thinking about these thighs is how strong they are; how they can still help me crouch down to look eye-to-eye at a child who needs me.  my small breasts are sent from heaven during the summer months when wearing a bra is akin to corset-wear.  and these hips bore the weight of two eight-pound plus babies, and shock everyone by the way that they move when the right song is playing. they shock me, and i am part of them.

what good is the 149 to me, in the end?  the only thing that number should mean is the amount of breaths i give myself, the number of times i rub lotion into my skin, how many times i smile today.  how many kisses i get in a week.  the length of a movie that makes me happy.  the amount of money that i will spend at the spa this summer with my best friends.  

fucking 149.

that's all that it should be.