If I could keep the Peanut dressed for an entire hour while we’re home, I’d do a happy dance.
I don’t foresee this happening. Baby girl just loves being free and easy. For that very reason, she learned to dress herself and undress herself very early. With my son, it wasn’t until he was about 2 that he’d strip. Not so with this one!!
I’m kinda jealous. I’m not jealous because I hate clothes, but instead, I’m envious of the ease in which she let’s herself be. She’s much too young to care about modesty or what is considered socially acceptable, and she’s far too young to be body-conscious.
I’m only wearing clothes because they’re new.
I hate how I look with clothes on a lot of days, let alone naked. It’s not body dysmorphia as much as it’s the reaction to my field of work. Actors are judged by how they look. It would get to anybody.
The man has suggested “naked days” to help get me over this issue, whereupon we stay in our home naked with our kids elsewhere, but I think he may have less-than-pure intentions. I mean, the concept seems a bit fishy to me. Unlike some of my friends who happily flounce about in the Russian and Slovak bath houses as naked as the day they were born, entirely comfortable within their own nudity, getting pedicures, and having cocktails like proper Eastern European women. It’s like James Bond’s personal spank bank in there. Anna Wannahumpski and Nadja Hrcrotch’s are everywhere.
I am the lone eastern european woman who’d like to go inside in a turtleneck and sweatpants. I’ll be Cat Prudinskovich. The scientist who works in the lab and assures that all of the leggy europeans James Bond falls for will forever require extra “grooming” to balance the scales of justice.
Equanimity for the former fat girls.
Losing the mass amounts of weight that I have has garnered me some significant leftovers upon my body. It’s embarrassing and I’m painfully aware of every mark, every bit of skin, every place that looks “off”. The thing is, I don’t think if I had every plastic surgery known to man that it would change a single thing. I have some sort of mental block that forbids me from seeing myself as I truly am.
Huh. I guess that is a sort of dysmorphia, isn’t it? I will look in the mirror, and though I can see that I am no longer the size 26 I was all those years ago, it’s as though the memory of that body is a phantom that shadows over me. Not simply the scars it left behind, or the image of the body I once carried coming from the depths of my memory, but it’s the feel of eyes averting from me, the pensive stares I received while eating at a restaurant; it’s the bone deep sorrow that radiated from my soul when I found out that it was my weight holding me back from what I wanted.
Sometimes, at the end of the day, when I lie in bed and remember the events the past hours have held, I can feel my mind slipping back inside the chasm of that time, recalling the insecurities and sadness that accompanied it.
I am no longer that person, even though that person was me, and yet somehow, that ghost of the past still sometimes holds me at the helm. Maybe one day it won’t be like this any more. Some day in the future, I may learn to exorcise this ghost of my former self. Until then, I can only work on my own affirmations of self-worth, and revel in the delight of the young.
I may not always love my body as much as I should, but I can do my best to make sure that my daughter never loses her love of hers.