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How I Became Comfortable With The Body I Was Meant To Have
I have a rough history with food. And my body image. And how I merged those two into a give-and-take concept.
I grew up in the ’90s; a time when Paris Hilton thin was everywhere and jeans sat snugly on the hips; just enough to cover your buttcrack, though not a women’s perfectly jeweled g-string.
The ’90s gave way to the early 2000s, and the images in the magazine of beauty remained the same: thin, blonde, and ribs often protruding.
In high school, I learned that what I ate equated to how I looked. I mean, I looked like any lanky, awkward high schooler that dabbled in sports here and there. It was ingrained in my mind, though, that wasn’t enough. I enrolled in my first gym membership at age 17 in an attempt to lose weight.
When I went off to college, the inevitable (and often described as the worst thing that could occur to an 18-year old) happened: I packed on the “freshman 15” in the form of late-night McDonald’s, and gallons of Budweiser guzzled through beer bongs.
I grew up in central Florida, and partying was all we knew. I mean, what else would you do for fun than canoe down the river with a 6-pack in tow? So I may have put on some weight, which bothered me, but at least we all did.
