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Self> Loving Your
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Loving Your
Curves
By S. D. Craig
Published January 2001
Have you fought your
weight all your life? I know the feeling.
Why can't we just give up and love ourselves?
Quit comparing skin with Jennifer Love Hewitt
or some other tiny thing? For once,
I'd like to see someone more normal on Friends.
Do they have to be THAT attractive?
I, for one, welcomed
Rosanne, a thicker Cybill, Rosie, and the
rest. And Rose of the Titanic fame
was a normal size. She even floated!
Is it this world and
the way they view women that are larger?
Our upbringing? What we read, see
on TV and the movies?
It's all of these things.
Society has drilled into our heads for decades
we need to be thin, thin, thin. Do
you remember seeing many itty bitty pioneer
women? And the nudes on the paintings
years ago? No way.
Family who are concerned
over your health, your living longer, sometimes
do more harm than good with their comments
and suggestions. Don't they know SUPPORT
is the key?
Why not stand up for
women with substance? There's more
to love. I really enjoy the articles
in Mode magazine, too. Cheers to curvaceous
ladies. Reading that magazine makes
me feel good as a woman.
My husband thinks soft
bellies and voluptuous lines, big breasts
and acres of creamy skin is what a woman
is all about. He loves curves and
something to grab on to. Am I ever
lucky? You bet.
Whew.
I mean, somewhere after
giving birth, the body just relocates where
it wants to. Some friend once told
me it just shifts to a new shape with each
kid. ARGH! So I stopped at two
daughters.
I have found that enjoying
life means enjoying food, too, for me.
I love eating out, having some man slave
over the chef's stove in the back of a restaurant
for me. Ain't life grand? I
mean, what woman doesn't want to hear these
words on a Friday night, "Would you
like to eat out, honey?" Hooray!
Was it written on my face?
And doesn't exercise
play a much more important role in your
life than you ever dreamed in high school?
So much I took for granted back then, the
daily horseback rides after school, the
sports we played, the walk to the bus stop.
Then, you graduate, and poof. It's
all over, you go to work, have babies, and
(is that what Baby Boomer means, they're
talking about our body?) expand. Also,
you forget to exercise.
I began walking seriously
in the Fall of '93 and walk five or six
days a week, at least 2-3 miles. Walking
does one obvious thing for me -- I'm a *firm*
big gal. Most people think I weigh
80 pounds less than I do. Walking
keeps me going, gives me hope, keeps me
in check. It makes me feel good about
what I'm doing for myself. Being a
writer, I take time and smell the
outdoors, see the flowers bloom, admire
the dew of a fresh rain, and am amazed at
storm clouds gathering.
Yes, weight is always
a battle. The scales (who the hell
invented those dreadful pieces of metal
anyway?) leer up at me after every weekend.
You bet I own stock in New Balance shoes
and walking shorts/pants.
Am I yet at peace with
being a larger woman? I'm trying.
I am also still trying to be a smaller big
woman. But I strive for happiness
as I go...
Next time you look in
the mirror, embrace the curves. As
your husband puts his arms around you and
finds softness, be glad. He needs
a cushion from the real world and you are
it. You are beautiful and worthy,
any way you want to be.
Let's celebrate women
with curves!
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About the
writer:
SD Craig is a freelance writer and editor of
LovingYourCurves.com and was given the nickname "Chatterbox"
by fellow writers. At age fifty, Craigs Southern flair and sense of humor
give her plenty to write about with a rapier wit and a wacky outlook.
Her articles on body image (her biggest passion), marriage/divorce and
relationships, family, friends, career issues, computers, the Internet,
horses, baseball, movie reviews and writing tips remind one of Erma Bombeck
or Dave Barry. A freelance writer who once juggled five columns then got
real, Craig welcomes your e-mails and feedback on her articles. Drop her
a hello at sdcraig922@yahoo.com or stop by www.lovingyourcurves.com.
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