Dear Body, thank you

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Today, I’m going to write something a little more serious. You see, after I was done making plans for my volleyball practices this week I was tooling around on Facebook and went to look at the “On This Day” thingy and saw a post that I made three years ago. It was a status post saying thank you to my body. In it, I thank my body for all of the things that I liked about it because sometimes I don’t really like my body.

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Note: This is what I loved about my body. This in no reflects what I think your body parts should look like.

Actually, a lot of the time I don’t really like my body. I have never really actually ever “liked” my body. I’ve lied and said I did. At one point in my life I had the mantra that “I’d like to see most girls do what I can do” because at that time I was an elite athlete who was training 2-7 hours a day, seven days a week and I was proud of the abuse my body was able to take. At the time, teenage me didn’t know a lot of people who had the endurance that I had and while I didn’t like my body, I liked that it could go hard all day, crash hard a night, then wake up and do it all over again the next day. But once my life as a high level athlete was over, I was left with a body that ballooned out into what I am now.

Then this past May, my school put on a Summer Ball and it was time to “suit and boot”, as the football lads put it. So that night I tamed my mass of insane curls into neatly straightened locks, did my make up and eventually slid my formal dress over my head and let it settle around my thighs. The hem barely reached my knees. Looking down at myself, I felt a very sweet moment of acceptance. I liked what I saw. Countless hours spent on the basketball court had toned my thighs and calves, my boobs looked good even though they weren’t the perkiest (they still aren’t – gravity has taken a firm hold of them), and I thought the dress was just all around flattering on me even though my arms were bare and that made me a little self conscious. But you know what, I liked and accepted what I saw and that hadn’t happened for a very long time.

So reading this post that I made to my body three years ago really made me start to think about the fact that I really don’t give myself enough credit. I’m generally not nice enough to my body even I happen to live in it and look at it every single day that I’m awake. I figure that in the spirit of Canadian Thanksgiving, I should take the time to write to my body again and tell it all the things I’m thankful for.

Dear Body, 

Thank you again for my beautiful eyes that are bright and alive. Thank you again for the beauty mark under my left eye that makes me look like my mom. I love when people tell me that I look like her because I think that she’s beautiful. Also, thank you again for my nipples that I happen to think are delightful and the perfect toppings to my chesticles. I can’t thank you enough for letting my legs stay stay strong, or for letting me keep my boobs that are still flotation devices. 

I know I haven’t been the nicest to you over the years. I’ve cut you, bruised you, broken, fractured, torn, and sprained you. I’ve starved you out of anger and hate, made you tape anything that hurts so I can keep on playing, and I have this awful habit of picking at my scabs. I’m also overly amused by the disgusting things you do so I have a weird fascination with popping pimples and using Biore nose strips. 

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I would be delighted if my nose strip ever looked like this.

So, body? Thank you. 

Thank you for muscles that have memorized countless movements for every sport that I’ve ever played. I love that I can bump a volleyball as well as I did 10 years ago and still remember how to overhand serve. Thank you for the fact that I can roll down a hill and not get sick. Thank you for my long, thick hair that grows fast because that one haircut I got really screwed it up. I can’t thank you enough for letting me be the lovely 5 feet 9 inches tall that I am. I love my height so much. I now think that it’s a perfect height for me. There are countless more things that I can thank you for, and should thank you for, but I’d be sitting here all night writing. 

Thank you, body, for taking all of the abuse and hate and still letting me do all of the things that I love like run, jump, twirl, hug, and all the dirty stuff. Thank you for everything. 

With gratitude, 

Me. 

My boobs tried to kill me

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IMG_6840It’s 5:29am. I have to be awake at 6:10am to get ready to leave the house at 7:15am to coach volleyball at 8:30am. I woke up just past 5am and I should have gone right back to sleep. I should be getting another hour of sleep right now. Except I’m not and it’s because my boobs tried to kill me.

I’ll type that again for you in case you think you’re reading wrong: MY BOOBS TRIED TO KILL ME.

Initially I though this would be a cheeky Facebook status, but then I realized it needed some explaining. I also haven’t blogged in a week so this will be my weekly post. It works out, yo.

326170272_d186dfdea5_bI usually don’t have any issues falling asleep and will usually fall asleep on my tummy or side and sleep for a solid 4 hours. Except last night was a really stressful drive home for me because I had two teenagers in the car with me for the hour long drive and, thanks to the rain, the entire highway was Hydroplane City. I spent the entire drive home gripping the wheel and tediously steering the car around long stretches of puddles because I was terrified of crashing with the girls in the car with me. Normally, driving in the rain is no big deal to me. I like to drive. I like the rain. Put the two together with a good playlist and you’ve got yourself a good time. I’m a confident enough driver, and a good enough driver that I can handle hydroplaning and a drive home at night in the rain shouldn’t be a big deal. Unless there are two teenage girls in the car with me who I’m terrified for if something unexpectedly bad should happen. Sure, these girls are also my younger cousins and their mum totally knows that I’m slightly insane at this point, but she seems to trust me with her children. It shouldn’t be a big deal. Except it was. So I spent the entire drive home, gripping the wheel and doing my best to drive around the massive puddles that had formed on the highway. I didn’t want to have to do a Carrie Underwood and let Jesus take the wheel.

Anyway. I got home and I was really wound up from this stressful, but successful, drive home. I was really agitated and amped up from the drive and ended up tossing and turning and making Instagram posts until 1am. I eventually passed out while laying on my back while reading Alice in Wonderland.

Skip to 4 hours later and it’s just past 5am and I’m dreaming that a giant assed bird has put me in her nest and is sitting on me and her feathers are smothering. In my dream I am slowly being suffocated to death by this birds ass feathers. I start to panic because I actually am having a hard time breathing. I can’t breathe. Why am I struggling to breathe? I need to get this dumb birds butt away from me because her feathers are covering my nose and…

My eyes snap open. I’m awake. I’m still struggling to breathe.

WHY CAN’T I BREATHE?!

I’m about to panic and scream for my mom.

Then I fully awake up and realize that in my sleep I have shifted around in my sleep so that I’m on my back and my tits are in my face. My eyes focus and the light from the hallway lets me see…well, my boobs. All I can see are my chesticles and somehow they have moved to partially cover my nose and mouth. My tatas had basically moved so that my nose and mouth were mostly buried in their fleshy depths.

I’m not even sure how this is a thing. Yes, my boobs are big and I make jokes about how if I run with no sports bra on I can potentially knock myself out, but I never thought my boobs were big enough that if I slept in just right right position that I could potentially smother myself. So yeah, my boobs can totally kill me if they try hard enough.

But that also means I can totally motorboat myself if I really want to.