Body image musings

The writing's on the wall?

So I got into the car this morning to Pink's 'Perfect' playing on the radio, which was rather ironic considering I'd spent a section of my morning berating my reflection for gaining so much weight (really, you should see that girl in the mirror: she needs to lay off the calories).

This reminded me of a semi-drunk conversation I had with Boyfriend over the weekend (I say semi because he was and I wasn't). It all started as we observed a pair of fake breasts that was part of the group we were having drinks with (their owner was there too obviously). Being a chesty girl myself and knowing how unwieldy large chesticles can be, I struggle to understand how anyone signs up for them, especially when – as was the case on Sunday – you're already pretty and skinny, aka perfect in my book.

This launched us on to the winding road to Loving Yourself Just The Way You Are, a place I think is somewhere south of Oz and just to the east of Never, Never Land. But Boyfriend beileves it exists. He maintains that if you're healthy (that is, not overweight or obese) and you have the added bonus of knowing that someone loves you and thinks you're perfect in your current state, it should be your goal to accept yourself as is. Love yourself even. And ditch the hang-ups.

I have a sneaking suspicion this philosophising was directed at yours truly. I'll probably always think of myself as the elephant in the room, and pick apart everything from my calf muscles to my hair to my stubby eyelashes to my – in my opinion anyway – overly enthusiastic mammary tissue, and this makes my man very, very sad at times (and annoyed at others ... sigh).

It's a completely foreign concept, the idea of not verbally abusing that girl who's trapped in my bedroom mirror, wearing my clothes and, frankly, not coming up to scratch in the looks department.

Still, it's an idea.