I have a dimple on my left ass cheek that an infinite amount of jump squats and lettuce until my dying day won’t fix.
My right eye is so lazy that it pisses the left one off.
Unless chiseled out by a plastic surgeon I will always have inner thigh friction. Dreams of a thigh gap will remain dreams.
Speaking of inner thighs, I have stretch marks on them. Not from a baby, and I wasn't big and got small or small and got big. Just “didn't-do-a-damn-thing to earn them” stretch marks.
My feet are flat and wide, while my big toes resemble cobra heads. I’d be an excellent Uber driver in the Stone Age.
The only cleavage that I will ever flaunt is ass cleavage (a.k.a. “Excuse me miss your butt crack is hanging out of your boyfriend jeans.”), and after eating a burrito my belly sticks out further than my boobs.
I can’t sing. I sound similar to an animal in pain or anything dying a terrible death.
Here comes the love part--
A face is cute with a dimple so why an ass can’t be respected for the same adorable quality is far beyond me. Some of the best faces and asses I know have dimples.
And when my right eye is especially lazy and heavy making my left one furious, I’m reminded of my little brother. His big, deep, blue eyes, and the way they don’t care about photographs or amount of sleep received; they always have an element of depth and sadness. I wouldn't care if he only had one eye or was born with an extra in the middle of his forehead. They are perfect, and they are just like mine.
Recently I spilled a drink in my lap while sitting in my car. Luckily, I was parked and I had on a dress which allowed my inner thighs to create an air tight seal. The liquid formed a small pool above my privates. I was able to jump out of the car without a single drop on my seat. I’m thankful for inner thighs that touch.
And from age 15 to 21, I single handily fueled the cocoa butter business. Then I gave up. My “didn't-do-a-damn-thing to earn them” stretch marks appeared for no apparent reason, and they intend to stick around for no apparent reason. I’m okay with that.
And on days when I’m especially envious of a social media beach photo with slender feet and perfectly formed toes stuck in the sand, I’m reminded of my older brother and our identical feet; the way his allowed him to chase me around the backyard of our childhood home. Those same feet are the base of his body which houses the biggest heart and the kindest spirit. And I laugh every time I think about the day he attempted a high kick which ended short of terrible and a smashed PlayStation 2. I can envision my mom kissing our toes when we were tiny babies. All those things are enough for me to love my feet, toes and all.
And I don’t have to wear a bra. Enough said.
And every time I belt out an off key ballad in my deepest alto tone Allie thinks it's hysterical. It never fails. She always laughs, and I wouldn't trade that for the vocal range of Mariah Carey or the half ponytail of Ariana Grande. That laugh fills me up, and that is perfect in every way imaginable.
Our perceived flaws can become our identity. The criticisms of oneself are often qualities those who love us admire most. Self-love is not pretentious; it is necessary to love others fully." Loving oneself is different from being arrogant, conceited or egocentric. Loving oneself means caring, respecting, understanding and taking responsibility for oneself." (selfloveyoga.com)
Take responsibility in loving yourself in the same way you want those you care about to love themselves.
You are perfectly imperfect so, baby, smile and show off those dimples :)