A photo posted by christyoshoney (@christyoshoney) on
Now, I don't typically use my Instagram as a platform for posting pictures of myself in a bikini. But for some reason, I just felt called to share this particular one. It was taken the other day at Jones Beach out on Long Island. Something you should know about me: whenever I go to the beach, I pretty much immediately go into full-on toddler mode. I jump around like a madwoman, do cartwheels, karate chop the ocean, and just act like I've never seen a body of water before in my entire life. This particular day, I was in rare form toddler-wise, but honestly, I couldn't help it. The place was practically empty, the water was glittery and perfect, I had a giant bag of Munchies that was giving me life, and I was just really, really happy.
When I got home and looked back at all of the pictures from the day, I couldn't stop laughing at this weirdo running around the beach like a rabid animal. But as I continued scrolling through, I also had another thought: Damn, I look good. It feels like such a scandal to say that. On this blog, I've talked about my views on body image, I've shared my actual weight, and I've also talked about why it's important to boldly enjoy things about yourself. And still, despite all of my pontificating on the importance of loving the person you are, I recognize that it's a really difficult idea.
But here's what I know: when I see a picture of myself smiling, laughing, and using my body to do fun things that I enjoy -- I just...I think I look good, okay? There are tons of things I could pick apart about my meat sack (by the way, henceforth, I will be subbing the word "meat sack" for the word "body" because I just like it better and I feel like I'm getting repetitive here), but honestly my meat sack enables me to do some really cool stuff. It is not THE most important thing about me, not by a long shot, but it is pretty damn important. From where I stand, it's a gift to be able to haul this thing all over the world. It's strong and soft and short in some places and long in others, and I love it because it's mine. If my meat sack were differently-shaped, I'd certainly find things to love about it, too. But regardless, the good Lord gave me this one meat sack with which to build my life, and I'm not going to act like I'm not totally psyched about it.
So if you've been struggling with your meat sack lately, perhaps it's time to reframe the way you think about it. Don't think about what it is or isn't, but instead think about what it does. Maybe you can jump, kick, dance, or parkour your way up the Empire State Building. If so, whoa, that's amazing. Or maybe you can't do any of those things, but you can breathe in and out, laugh, write, blink in morse code, GROW A HUMAN INSIDE OF YOU, etc. While you may not always realize it, all of those things are pretty amazing too.
Now, that being said, it's totally okay if you want to change some things about your meat sack. Seriously, don't feel guilty if you don't wake up every morning, shouting, "I'M PERFECT JUST AS THE WAY I AM!" But all the while, know that you get points for just existing, so even if it bulges out in places you wish it didn't or it has scales or whatever, show your meat sack some love. It's gotten you this far, after all.
Today, we're going to talk about weight. Human body weight, that is. And let me start off by saying that I am only an expert in this subject insomuch as I have some weight, and I am a person, which is why I'm really only going to talk about my own human body weight. This might get weirdly personal real quick, y'all, but whatever, let's dive right in.
Like you, my body weight has reflected several different numbers over the course of my life. When I was born, I weighed a little over seven pounds, which I’ve heard is normal for a newborn. At that time, my weight wasn’t of major concern to me. I had more pressing issues such as, you know, being born and things like communicating my need for sustenance.
As I grew older, I became increasingly more aware of my body. In eighth grade, I have a distinct memory of stepping on the scale in my parents’ bathroom about ten times in a row one afternoon. Each time I did, the digital screen read “136.” Back then, I remember those three numbers feeling like a kick in the stomach. Forget the fact that I was a growing, healthy kid. In my thirteen-year-old brain, I genuinely believed that my body was expanding at an alarming rate. I felt a lot like this, actually:
As an adult, my weight has fluctuated within a range of about thirty pounds. At my lowest, I weighed 145, but I have to confess that I only existed at such a weight under the most extreme conditions of my life. As a college student, I worked at a camp every summer, which doesn't sound like Crossfit, I know, but believe me, it was truly physically demanding. In the grueling 100-plus-degree heat, I pushed my body up and down hills while carrying giant water jugs, a massive backpack, and sometimes an eight-year-old or two. I basically never stopped moving or sweating or pushing my body to its limits. I ate seconds every day at breakfast along with chicken fried steak and a side of cake at dinner, and still, I lost weight. Lots of weight. I would leave each summer flat-chested and incapable of regulating my body heat in air-conditioned buildings.
Me doing the camp thing. Note my sweat lines.
Also, feel free to check out my boobs. Psych! They aren't there.
But then I would go back to school, and I would either eat healthy or I wouldn't, and I would soon be back to weighing within 155 and 170 pounds. College was a time where I was rarely happy with the way I looked. While I wasn't a fan of how my summers seemed to rob me of my natural feminine features, I still just wanted so badly to resemble the other girls at my school. Skinny, athletic, bright-eyed with thighs that never touched and chins that never doubled. The more I weighed, the further I felt from the physical ideal I had invented in my mind.
Like most women (and most men, I would assume), I've lived a large part of my life wishing the number on my scale could be different. Over the years, I've obsessed over it, cried over it, and spent a good deal of energy trying to change it.
But now, suddenly and without warning, I've kind of reached this new step in my relationship with my weight, and it's a bit surprising to me, actually. This morning, I stepped on the scale and it reflected back to me what I already knew: I weigh 174 pounds. That's roughly twenty-five times my birth weight, almost forty pounds more than what I weighed in middle school when I thought I looked like a blob. And it is literally one pound more than the weight of the heaviest pit bull in the world.
And you know what, honestly, I feel pretty good.Maybe the best I've ever felt.
Meet Hulk. He weighs 173 pounds. We should swap clothes. (via Bored Panda)
Whenever I share that number (174 pounds), friends often respond by saying, "No! No way. That can't be right." And I'm never really sure how to react to that. Thank you? I guess?
So maybe you think that's a high number. Maybe you think it's low. Maybe you think it's normal. Perhaps you weigh more and perhaps you weigh less. Whatever, I'm not here to make any decisions on whether 174 pounds is a lot.
Because regardless of what my number sounds like to anyone else, the fact is I'm relatively good with it. My entire adult life, even during those summers of poke-able ribs and cheekbones, I have always technically been overweight, at least according to my Body Mass Index. You know about that whole thing, right? BMI: a measurement of relative size which indicates that Brad Pitt is technically obese. Yeah...
So needless to say, this is no different from any other time in my life. But the thing that is different is that lately, for the most part, when I look in the mirror, I like what I see. I enjoy dressing up my body, making my hair big, and putting on a pair of fringed boots and walking out the door. I love my full face, my strong legs, my general appearance. Overall, I just feel like myself.
And I'm not really sure what caused this shift in my perception of my body. Maybe it's the fact that I'm a bit older, a bit wiser, a bit further removed from the dorms at Baylor University. Regardless, I've become a lot less fixated on my numbers. I care about different things now: feeling good, making positive choices -- all that good stuff. I've simply lost interest in pushing against my natural shape.
And by the way, I'm not 100% certain why I decided to write this post today. Perhaps I'll wake up tomorrow wishing I hadn't shared my exact weight with all of my readers. I suppose I just feel like there's still junk to sort out in the larger body image conversation. When we talk about weight, culturally, we tend do it in this vague, roundabout way. We don't mention a lot of specifics, and we certainly never mention numbers. We talk about health, beauty, and we make a hundred different contradictory statements about what it means to have either. And despite everyone's best efforts, many women are still left feeling like crap about themselves.
I guess by putting my number out there today, I mostly just want to take some power away from it. Weight is not this big secret that we need to hide, something that we should only talk about in hushed tones. It's a stat. It's trivia. It's information as scandalous as eye color, blood type, or favorite movie. It is just a thing you've got, and for the most part, it's not even a good indicator of wellness.
So yeah, I weigh 174 pounds, and I look fantastic in a wrap dress. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't wish my number was marginally less, but that honestly doesn't stop me from feeling good about my body. And knowing that has made a big difference for me, and I don't know, maybe it could make a big difference for you too.
Anyway, how much do YOU weigh?
Haha, jkjkjkjkjk (unless you feel like sharing, I guess)
