HOT BODY IN A BOX: WHEN FAT CONTROLS US
I’ve been silly. For the last few weeks, I’ve driven twelve miles to a local spa to bask in the radiant heat of the far infrared sauna. With each visit, I’ve sizzled alone—no other occupants in sight—in my one piece bathing suit.
I didn’t think twice about donning my bathing suit until today. I looked at the glass door with curtain drawn, lock in place. I glanced over my left shoulder, then my right. Just me. Party of one. I wasn’t hiding my unshaven legs or my two half-painted toenails. So why was I covering up the rest of my body?
As soon as I asked the question, the answer came flying out of my subconscious. I didn’t like staring at the extra pooch (as I so lovingly call it) that found its home around my mid-section when I dropped my regular workout routine.
I’m glad I was honest with myself, but the answer still made me mad.
I’m the naked friend: the one who slaps on some big ol’ panties and laughs at my saggy tush. I waded into Ross Lake with nothing on but a headlamp because I wanted to feel free on vacation. I fought hard during my twenties to befriend my cankles, and I don’t own a full-length mirror. Why was I struggling with this?