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Challenge: Why I Love My Mom Bod

My thighs touch

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My thighs touch. Whether I'm sitting, standing, walking, running, or twerking -- no matter what I'm doing -- they are stuck like glue to one another. Ya know, like BFFs.

My stomach is over-decorated in visible stretch marks. So are my upper thighs and love handles. They glisten in the sun -- I guess that's kind of neat.

I weigh 140lbs on a good day and around 152lbs after a stellar Saturday night. At my height of 5' 3','' both put my BMI in the "overweight" range.

I don't have eyebrow hair. To no fault of anyone but my dang self who *tried* to make those furry bushes cute and thin back in the late nineties only to make them practically nonexistent. Now I've got eyebrow stubble (which isn't attractive in the least), and the microblading I had done 12 years ago, it's faded, and no doubt needs a retouch.

My ankles and knees, they both bear unsightly calluses. I blame the kids for those. Too much criss-cross applesauce and crouching down to "get on their level." And because of those unflattering markings, I never wear shorts anymore. AND I LIVE IN HOT AS HECK FLORIDA.

My lady bubbles haven't been perky since I was in college and since birthing three kids, they don't even deserve to be called bubbles...more like...deflated balloons...and not the fun kind full of helium that brings you joy...they are sad, depressed and seeking comfort from my ribs and stomach.

My ears are small compared to the rest of my face, though you'd never noticed unless you studied them, and you don't need to study my nose to know that honker holds first place position on my overly sun-exposed, face.

I've got small, yellow-tinted teeth, which though once braced, have all started growing into one another, giving my bottom teeth a nice crooked impression.

I look okay, though, with a good filter, of course.

And at the right angle.

And in the right clothes.

And when the camera points down while aimed at "my good side."

You see, I've always been body-conscious. It is not even just body-conscious, but appearance-conscious, 'cause my face gives me just as much worry as all that's connected to it.

I've had acne and cold sores.

I've damaged my hair so badly that it broke off, leaving just an inch right around the frame of my face.

As an adult, I've weighed as low as 121lbs and as high as 209lbs.

While I'm sharing these facts with you to debunk any ridiculous notion you might have that others are "more perfect," than you, each one of these frustrating as hell, but authentic tidbits about me IS THE LEAST INTERESTING THING ABOUT ME.

Just like any gosh darn comment you could make about your body or on your appearance.

So why in the heck are we assigning importance where it doesn't belong?

Why, when we look in the mirror each day, do we think that what we see says more about who we are than what is in our heart and soul?

And why do we look in the mirror so much each day?

And why don't we see what and who it is that other people see?

Listen, I'm so fudgin' imperfect, but these imperfections are the least interesting thing about me, and it's about dang time I treat them as such.

I hope you'll do the same.

(sidenote: Yes, that is a belly ring hole. Don't judge a girl based on her Britney Spears phase. I've given that baby 10+ years to close up, and it refuses.)

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