Weighting to Exhale

Yesterday afternoon one of my coworkers told me I have fat ankles. The thing is, when she told me this, she had no idea she was commenting on my ankles.

You see, through a series of strange events, my ankles--and only my ankles--ended up on a book cover. So that's how my coworker wound up commenting on my ankles without actually knowing they were mine.

So. Ankles. It's not as though my ankles are something I think about on a daily, weekly, or even yearly basis unless it's absolutely necessary--like when someone puts them on a book cover. Or when someone who doesn't know they're talking about my ankles starts talking about them in a very negative way right to my face.

I won't lie--the comment stung a little bit. But after that initial moment of ick, I was relieved that she was so frank with me, even if she didn't actually know she was being frank with me about me. She didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. After all, there's a reason I am an editor and not a shoe model.

Or leg model.

Or ankle model.

Whatever.

The truth: After 30 years of inhabiting this body, I don't harbor a whole lot of illusions about it. I love my body; I couldn't always say that, but I can now. And I'm not saying it b/c I recently lost weight or firmed up a previously squishy area, because I haven't. I love this body because it is a good, healthy, sturdy body, and it has given me a good, healthy, sturdy life.

My hips, my thighs, my bra size, (my ankles?) and what the scale says when I step on it--all of the things I measured my self worth against for so long--are less important to me the more I come to terms with me and this person--this woman--I'm growing into.

What's important now is the stuff I'm putting out into the world, and how it comes back around to me in the end.

And whatever this funny little life has in store for me, good or bad, I'm ready to embrace every moment of it.

Fat ankles and all.