Dysmorphia

I don't possess the contemporary "hot body". I'm built for fucking and I have nice legs, but my body was clearly designed for myriad successful pregnancies and the stamina necessary to provide for multiple children and perhaps surviving the occasional famine.

Fucking evolution.

A woman's relationship with her body is a strange thing. If my body and I had a song, it would be "It's a Thin Line (Between Love and Hate)". Taken piecemeal -- even now that I'm a big girl -- parts of it are quite lovely. I have nicely shaped breasts with giant nutmeg colored areola and nipples. My shoulders and neck are classicly sculptured. My midsection is webbed with silvery stretch marks -- a side effect of my soft and tender complexion -- and tends toward rounded generosity in a way I rather hate. I must need loving, because I sure have the handles.

After several months of dancing my ass got tight enough to crack walnuts and I developed deeply cut calves and Mary Lou Retton thighs. I could have been a Bond villian. I could have snapped a man's neck with those thighs.

I love my motherfucking body.

My body loves me not.

10+ years later I still have a small dent about 3 inches above my left inner ankle from the time I drunkenly cracked my leg on a corner of the stage during a misjudged drop split. I wanted to cry, but the club was crowded. Instead I bit my lip, threw my head back and then smiled widely. I made $75 during that particular performance. It was a personal record.

I love that motherfucking dent.