by Francisco L. White
On the elliptical, I began to question and summarily reject much of what naturally skinny queers are told. It’s lies. My conclusion was to say fuck high protein smoothies. Sweat dripped from my struggling beard, scruff with uncertain potential but ample beard oil, and Kelis was singing the gospel of self-emancipation when I walked out of the fitness club for the last time today. This is a revelation, a necessary reclaiming of my sexy and redefining of fit at 29 in 29 x 31 jeans. I don’t need to get my weight up.
It’s a pivotal moment when you grab a handful of your not so thick ass and realize it’s just right for you. Like, just maybe it will bring all the boys who crave a leaner treat to the yard. You might also flex in the mirror and decide the extraordinary means necessary to have a torso like Michael B. Jordan’s no longer appeal to you. That’s where I am, hardly the next Human Torch at 5’8 and 140 pounds but finally okay with it. Coming to accept my skinny-fit frame has been an emotionally arduous journey of frantic dashes (wearing ankle weights, of course) to GNC, to the overpriced gym that direct debits from my checking, to the scale that is nothing if not consistent in telling me to have a seat. Here I am, trying to break my gym contract but also needing to break a common habit.
If you knew how much of my time and energy has been wasted over the years comparing my body to others, if I could quantify it, you’d wonder how I’ve been able to get anything else done. Body comparison, which we all do to some extent, has been poisonous for me. I have to cut it out, among other changes in how I treat myself and how I allow others to treat me.
Where do I begin to tell the story of how great self-care can be? In many ways, I’m the healthiest, strongest and most well I’ve ever been. I run a mile in good time, meditate and laugh often, get adequate sleep like Arianna Huffington told me to. Even my intake of water and leafy greens is way up. I’d feel much more blessed in my great body though, if I change how I talk to and about it. (You see what I did there?) It struck me that I have as many positive affirmations as Nicki has bars and not one of them affirms my body image. I’ve been saying I’m enough, while aspiring to look like someone else. I’ve been saying I’m enough, while listening to unsolicited advice and internalizing lowkey violent criticisms about what my body should look like. From now on, if we’re talking about my body, we’re watching our mouths. I feel sexier already.
Source: Now, If We’re Talking Body