I’m beginning to feel more in-touch with my body again, after a few months of disconnection. It’s hard to say what triggered that, or what steps I took to get back here – maybe it’s just my story or the will of the Universe.

I’m eating a little better and working out a little more. The scale is barely moving, but I have a strange confidence that I’m preparing to shed another significant layer of stored, useless cells. Just as I know for sure when I’m not prepared to commit to weight loss, I seem to also know when it’s time for it to happen almost naturally.

It’s time.

And I still suspect that it’s all tied up with this idea of my not knowing who to be… Conservative Mom has cellulite-ridden thighs, flabby arms, and won’t be caught dead in shorts. Sometimes she’s pretty much okay with that. Fun Lisa (I still feel like calling her that) has a strong, toned body and feels somewhat confident in a bikini in the right environment. She admires herself from the inside out.

So, is Fun Lisa a narcissist, or is it a healthy self-image? How much self-love is too much? How much sensuality is socially acceptable? Because sex-drives soar as muscle-tone improves… I don’t want to create a monster.

When I was an oppressively innocent teenager, I had a thin, toned dancer’s body. Yet I don’t associate dripping sexuality with that time in my life – quite the contrary. I was naive and completely unaware of my body. With awareness comes responsibility? Is that it?


I’m really not sure at all, but I know I much prefer to be on this end of the spectrum, as watching myself step out of a fat suit brings a gigantic ego boost and fills me up with something warm and fuzzy-feeling.

The momentum and desire for a different body builds upon itself, just as the plunge to obesity becomes an uncontrollable, body-neglecting feeding frenzy. The soreness of my muscles is pleasant and welcome, and I become addicted to that – running further, lifting more, stretching longer…

My stomach loses that heavy, “stuffed” feeling and lives in a more neutral zone. The occasional empty feeling is strange and I begin to become accustomed to it, craving healthy foods and enjoying every bite of loving nourishment I provide for myself. More self-love and confidence.

And the mirror becomes a welcome friend, rather than the mocking enemy that shamed me into hiding and eating… only it is doing exactly what mirrors do – reflecting myself back to me – whatever Self I happen to be at the moment. But in this upward climb, what I see is another line in my arm, fewer dimples in my ass, the beginnings of sexy shoulders, and long-forgotten calves.

I’m becoming some body.

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