So excited to prance around the beach in a bikini next week!
*INSERT AUDIBLE EYE-ROLL HERE.*
Truth is: I love bathing suits, but I am nearly always thinking about how things look when I have one on.
My footsteps become gentler and my movements perfectly choreographed for maximum flattery. When I write it like that, you'd think it would appear downright graceful but I'm guessing that I look more like a fleshy robot that has brightly colored lycra jamming up it's hinges.
Even when I was at my sickest/smallest, there were still stretch marks and cellulite to keep me humble.
Things back then certainly sagged a bit more than they do now, and no amount of lunging around the house seemed to help.
I know every tip and trick in the book, and use them liberally to fool myself into feeling great (or at least passable) in a two-piece... these things can truly make a huge difference in how I feel, but sometimes I wish that my heart were leading the pack instead of being tricked into submission.
Not that I think those little beach-body life-hacks are inherently bad (especially because I can hardly imagine what I'd do without them), but I hate the way they seem to lure me into thinking that the world can't handle ME if my love-handles are being pinched.
Instead of working on having a better figure, I want to pursue freedom from the way that this stuff occupies my mind. It DOES help me to feel more confident, but it does not deserve to fill the space in my heart reserved for gloriously adventurous living.
I'm CLEARLY still learning what this freedom looks like, and I have a feeling that our vacation next week will be quite telling at the very least -- A new chance for me to see how it feels to break free from the mental prison being caused by the elastic shackles we call swimsuits.