Lately, I’ve been experiencing a bit of apprehension when it comes to putting on a swimsuit. Maybe it’s because no matter how much hot yoga or bike riding or veggie eatin’ I do, I simply won’t get the body of Gisele Bundchen.
After spending the morning having a giant pity party for myself, I met my mom for a late afternoon snack at Normandy Farms on Broad Street. I opted for a delicious toasted turkey sandwich and, never one to turn down something sweet, a raspberry square for dessert. I ate the entire thing and then looked at my plate in disgust. Sensing my disappointment, my mom turned to me with her own look of disgust: “Honey, there isn’t a damn thing wrong with that lunch.”
She’s right. There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with enjoying a raspberry square. It was absolutely delicious. And there isn’t a damn thing wrong with not looking like Gisele. The more I think about it, the more I need to be prouder of my body. Sure, my legs won’t ever walk me down the runway of a Victoria Secret runway, but they do other things that are pretty noteworthy. They bike me to work each day. They act as a great pillow for my nieces and nephews on the holidays, and in my younger years, they worked wonders when it came to fending off annoying big brothers who had high hopes of destroying my Barbie collection.
So, Giselle, you keep on rockin’ that Victoria Secret runway. As for me? I’m going to rock a runway of my own right down here in the Lowcountry. I’m going to hold my head up high the next time I walk down the beach. I might even do it with a raspberry square in tow. Because at the end of the day, nothing is sexier than treating your body with the respect it deserves.