Today I noticed that I have 3 to 4 new stretch marks on my thighs. I know that they are new because they are still darker then my skin. I have had stretch marks in the past and the old ones have all faded to thin light squiggly lines on my legs.
I know that I have neglected my health over the last few months and that my exercise routine has slowed down. I also know that my clothes are fitting tighter and even my bra seems to feel like a suffocating brace around my chest. But, all of those things can be ignored, squinted past and even avoided. Perhaps my clothes shrunk? Or maybe (hopefully) my boobs just grew?
But the freshly stretched marks that run down both thighs can mean nothing other then an epic increase in size. This happens when the mass underneath grows faster then the skin can stretch over top.
I mapped them out in the mirror today just before jumping into the shower, and even though I spoke about them neutrally in my head, I’d be lying if there isn’t a slight wave of shame, disappointment and sadness that floods my heart.
I have never been a skinny girl and my weight, size and shape have always been the thing that needed work. I have done a great deal of development around my sense of self and my body, and I have grown past the phase of punishment, deprivation, starvation, counting calories, going on diets or forcing myself to the gym. I really have started listening to my body and having my intuition and pleasure guide the way.
Having said all that, I know that my current shape is not really a match for who I am. And these new stretch marks seem like new notches on the metaphorical bedpost of failure.
Historically, I am relatively good at creating a story or narrative in my head to conjure up a different perspective, but today, all this feels like is the final physical representation that my body is out of control.
I wanted to write a blog that was honest, and from the trenches of despair. Usually I write them about something that has already happened and I have recently had a breakthrough in.
But this time, I think all there is to write about is the deep sadness, anxiety and doubt that lives in my heart.
Am I destined to live a life where I can never feel proud of my body? I am getting married next year and I can already feel the worry and stress regarding whether I will lose the weight for that event.
I keep giving myself deadlines: “for Christmas I am going to give myself the gift of a fit body”, or “by my next birthday I will be in great shape”, or even “the next event I got to will show me looking 15lbs lighter”.
As these dates approach I realize that my goal will not be reached and I give up the fight.
I am tired of always trying to make my body change. I just want it to be the best it can be and I am unsure what else there is for me to do.
These bright pink stretch marks stare up at me as I sit here in my pajama shorts. I almost feel sorry for my skin, she must have to try so hard just to keep it all together. I am literally stretching her thin!
I have to be honest I have yet to fall madly in love with these new stripes. So I am sad, and I wish these stretch marks never came to visit. Usually visitors come to teach us or show us something, and right now I am unsure as to what presents they have for me.
I wonder if perhaps this was the only way my thighs could get my attention. I have been ignoring them over the last few months. Maybe this was there way of standing out? Any attention is better then no attention right?
Or perhaps this is a not-so-subtle sign from my body to start focusing on my health. That I need to start treating my body as if it were a sacred temple.
I have heard from pregnant woman that moisturizing helps keep the skin supple and flexible. Is this my body’s way of asking me to slap some cream on my hands and feel her up?
All of these perspectives or stories could be true, the question is which one do I choose?
I could stick with the story that my marks are these horrible ugly scars that remind me that I am fat, ugly, undisciplined and a failure.
Or I can make up that it is my body’s way of telling me something
Though I want to stay in the dark place of despair, I think I will try on option #3. What if I pretend that my thighs are aching for some self-love and sensual touching? Would that make a difference or perhaps have this experience be more tolerable? Maybe even fun? Tonight I am going to imagine my hands are the hands of my lover and watch them as they massage the cream into my sculpted thighs. Tonight I am not only going to feel what my hands feel like massaging these strong pillars, but also what my thighs feel like being rubbed and touched.
I haven’t even started yet, and already I can feel the excitement start to brew inside me. Now that I think about it, my fiancé is home, maybe I can get him to play along also? Given that he is my actual lover, maybe he has some tips for me? He may be able to show me, and teach me, how to adoringly touch, caress, rub and massage my thighs in ways I have never done myself.
(I love being able to fetishize something that could historically knock me off my throne of self-worth.)
I can already see that I am hoping that this exercise with my beau leads to places beyond my thighs!
Thank you stretch marks for visiting. I love your gift of sexiness, love and sensuality. You showed up as scary scar tissue and are now here as sexual arrows pointing in various directions, all in service of my pleasure.