The journey to self-acceptance is a funny one. I’ve struggled with myself a lot over the years – my mind, my weight, my voice, my purpose. There are times I would think I overcame an obstacle only to find myself grappling with it again a few months later. Our journeys are never linear and sometimes the same thing that made you cry yesterday will have you laughing uncontrollably today. It doesn’t mean anything is wrong, it just means you’re growing.
Pizza Dough
Doing anything for the first handful of times makes my skin crawl. My nervousness makes me fixate on distractions in hopes of avoiding interaction with anyone when I’m not quite sure how to act. That’s how I found myself so intrigued by pizza dough.
“Hi, I’m picking up a Grubhub order for Stephen.”, spoken confidently because it has been rehearsed.
“Stephen – alright, looks like it’s going to be about 10 more minutes, sorry for the wait.”, polite, non-threatening, definitely manageable.
“Great, thanks!”
Ten minutes. This is a really small shop, what am I supposed to focus on for ten minutes as I stand here awkwardly. Wow. That’s a lot of bread. Do they bake that themselves or order it from somewhere? Found it. Four feet in front of me, a mound of bread loaves stacked on the counter– different varieties. There were enough details in this to pour over for hours.
It doesn’t matter to me how odd I seem, staring at bread mountain, so long as my focus is on something other than the thoughts of the people around me. For the same reason, I rudely avoid eye contact with everyone I pass, intentionally staring just beyond their faces. Luckily, there is no one in sight from me to bread-Everest so the only thoughts in question are my own, and are those poppyseeds on that loaf?
Oh no! The bread, my view.. who is this! I can’t see your face, out of choice not where I was standing, but you’re in my way. You’re not moving, ugh. Don’t panic, just adapt. Meet your new focus, faceless stranger. Black apron, very floury, covering a white shirt. What are you doing here anyway? My eyes scan carefully, ensuring no breach of the facial anonymity we’ve got going for us. Wow, you just carry the dough around against your apron like that? Does that violate any kind of health code? Well, I guess it’s still raw, whatever.
I couldn’t look away from the way his arms enveloped the dough against his apron. It looked soft, squishy – I wanted to touch it. It was pale, almost matching his skin and it folded in rounded rolls as he nestled it. I hate doing things for the first few times, but there’s nothing I loved more than seeing something for the first few times.
My gaze was this time broken by a second man, this one with a face, handing me Stephen’s order. “Thank you, have a great day!”
I enjoyed the moment but it was gone, back to delivering. I finished the next few orders without anything noteworthy and then when I finished my shift and headed back home my mind drifted back to the dough, just for a moment. I’m a sensory person, for sure, and I just want to know what it felt like.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The next morning, rolling out of bed feels especially cumbersome. I trudge by the mirror, pausing for just a moment to take in my barely awake body. At this point, looking in the mirror is more for intrigue than judgment and I chuckle at the sight before proceeding to the kitchen to start the coffee.
On the way back, I pause once more and this time the judgment creeps in. I start by pointing out the things I like – the way my boobs still look perky because I haven’t been upright very long yet, how my messy bedhead is kind of cute, the way my hips are starting to thicken so I look a little more consistent from top to bottom. After finding enough things I love, it’s almost like something inside of me decides it needs a little negativity to balance out all of the hype and the list of critiques comes through.
The list ends when I get to my belly. My hands lift, I touch it, gently squeeze. The way the fat and skin fold in my hand, as I’m watching in the mirror, flashing me back into the pizza shop looking at the bread dough. Soft, pale – I want to squish it. I pull my shorts down enough that my whole belly is out now and then I cup it the same way Mr. Apron cradled the pizza dough. It takes the same shape of rounded rolls, softly mounded atop gentle arms.
Maybe next year, for Halloween, I can just cut a hole in an apron, throw some flour on my belly and walk around hugging it. The thought catches me off guard and I laugh, hard. When the laughter dies down, I squish my belly in my hands one more time, lovingly, and smile. Fuck the critic, this body suits me just fine.
Much love, until next time.
Madeline May I... 