flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread
So this happened a few weeks ago at intermission of a friend’s concert, when the people I was sitting with and I randomly started discussing all the things that are strange about our bodies — the G-rated things, anyway. You know, super extra hitchhiker’s thumb, monkey toes, extra flat ears, ice cream headache that happens in the middle of my spine instead of my head, funny sticky-out heels, low ankles, freakishly long femurs. . . and so on. I mostly remember mine because we always focus on our own weirdness instead of friend’s, don’t we? I may find my own weight horrifying on bad days, but my friends just look like the shape that they are to me. I’m a judgemental asshole to myself.
Even pre-puberty, when I was tall and skinny, I hated my body a lot of the time for a lot of weird reasons; once I turned 11 and biology vehemently disagreed with my plan of being a ballerina, I hated it more. And that’s a shame. Here I am at twelve or thirteen, when I thought I was the fattest thing on earth:
(Click to embiggen) And aside from the general awkward party the far left photo and my hair are holding, I’m fine. I was a healthy, slim, slightly curvy girl. Yes, not the Balanchine ideal, but can I just say fuck Balanchine?
Aaaanyway, time to go listen to Tim Minchin some more – or it would be if my break weren’t about to run out. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CDGuPp1np4o