I will be the first to admit that I won’t be strutting down a catwalk anytime soon.
This body of mine, while huggable and sometimes strong, isn’t model material.
I know and accept this as a universal truth, much like I acknowledge that the sun rises in the east, and Charlize Theron is an alien from the planet Imahotgal sent here to make the rest of us feel inferior.
Now she was a model. Me, not so much.
So it shouldn’t really bother me that my daily injections leave me pretty banged up.
But it does.
My stomach, arms and tush are a topographical map of swollen hills, creases and red rivers. The pain of a daily shot is compounded by the scars it leaves behind. Those traces of the injection can take days to go away, and even though you rotate to give an area a break, there’s always a chance that you will hit the same spot too soon.
There is some vanity to this, I admit. I recoil from myself sometimes when I see a bruised spot, or touch a knot that has yet to fade into nothingness.
The longer the shot regimen (uh, life?), the more tissue gets damaged and never fully recovers.
Here you thought cellulite was bad.
I know, this shouldn’t matter to me. I should just overlook these spots and go on my merry little way. I am not disfigured, nor did I suffer third-degree burns. But then you hear women fretting over stretch marks. About surgery scars. Acne scars. Moles. And women getting surgery after plastic surgery.
Is it vanity, or something more than skin deep?
I don’t derive my self-worth from how I appear. I know there’s a lot more to me than just what can be seen.
I know I will never saunter along Ursula Andress style in a Bond bikini. I’m fine with that.
Can’t I want to feel good in my own skin?