I’m writing to you in hopes that you’ll accept my sincerest apology. I won’t beat around the bush: the things I’ve said about you over the years are completely horrendous and unacceptable.
I’ve called you every negative name in the book, twice over. I spent years shielding my eyes from your reflection in the mirror, and countless hours pinching and poking all those trouble spots.
I hate myself for calling anything on you a trouble spot, Body. A tumor, a missing limb, a body suffering from third degree burns – those are trouble sports worth bitch about.
SKIN on my stomach? DIMPLES on my ass? Not so much.
Body, I know I’ll never have rock hard abs or arms like Jillian Michaels, but that’s not your fault, it’s mine. I love Sweet Frog and french fries and cocktails too much.
Body, I am so thankful for my muscles that work, for my eyes that see, for my ears that can hear, and for the overall health you produce. I’m thankful for my smile and my laugh and my obscure mind that has the ability to make a joke out of the most inappropriate situations.
Body, I’m so thankful that you haven’t turned your (my?) back on me and never believed anything I said about you. You knew I’d come around one day. You knew I couldn’t hate you forever. You knew, that someday, we’d finally enter into a mutual love affair.
Well, Body, you were right.