My body image is skewed, to say the least. Regardless of my weight, heavy or not, when I look in the mirror I always see the same me and I don't like what I see. (which is why the mirrors over the bathroom sinks are the only two in our house.)
Anyway, Andy doesn't know what it is to be ashamed of one's body. All his life I've told him, every single day, that he's the most perfect, the smartest and the most handsome guy in the world. Because he is. No one has ever told him anything different, so why should he think otherwise? But here's what I thought about this morning. Andy doesn't care what I look like either.
When he walks in on me in the shower, he doesn't look at my stomach and say, "Whoa, Mom! What the hell happened there?" He doesn't look at my breasts and say, "Better roll those things up before you trip over them." He just sees me. His Mom. And he loves me.
I could learn a lot from my son.
My trainer tells me I look different now than I did 20 some pounds ago. Common sense tells me this must be true, but I don't see it and I don't really feel any different either. Maybe it will come with the next 20...or the 20 after that. One thing that's different, though, is that I'm feeling a little better about myself every day. That's a good thing. What will be a great thing? When feeling good about myself is no longer contingent upon a number on a scale.
Now THAT will be a great day.