31: The Year of Self-Love as the New Sexy

Last year I declared 30 to be the Year of the Moxie. And okay, there are days and weeks and maybe even whole months that I fell short of that goal. But on the whole, I'd say I did plenty of ballsy things and made some great big leaps that made my moxie shine. Go me, right? And since today is the last day of my 30th year, I realized it's time to start thinking about what the next year might bring and what I owe myself to try to do. What will 31 be the year of?

There's this fabulous new-ish movement among people to shut down body shamers and accept and even celebrate their own beautiful, flawed, perfectly imperfect bodies. I LOVE this movement. I celebrate it with others. I rejoiced with Sports Illustrated had a cover model on their swimsuit issue this year who looked more like many women do rather than their standard super thin fare. Not because curvy > skinny, but because diversity = reality. I think this idea that all bodies are great and capable and beautiful is a running giant leap towards us as a human race figuring out how to live together and be peaceful. Seeing beauty in our bodies is a thing of beauty in and of itself.

But: I'm not so forgiving when it comes to my own body.

I have struggled with my body image since I was 11 years old and I got hips (I distinctly remember getting stuck in a friend's backyard tire swing and feeling so embarrassed--I figured I must have been fat, not simply maturing into womanhood). My weight and dress size have fluctuated so much in the last 10 years that I essentially have two wardrobes, one for when I'm thin (read: probably depressed and not eating) and one for when I'm fat (read: probably waaaaay more healthy). The bad news recently, however, is that even my "fat jeans" are getting to be a bit too snug. Part of this I chalk up to not going to the gym as religiously as I did a year and a half ago. Part of this I chalk up to being in a happy relationship where we both really love food, so we spend our time enjoying it together. And part of it is because I am trying to stop with the mother-fucking guilt.

So that's it. 31? 31 is going to be the year of self-love. Of forgiveness. Of being more gentle with myself. Of embracing self-care. Of making all of this the new sexy. So instead of beating myself up for not going to the gym and sweating it out, I will get excited about the next yoga class I can take with my friends. Instead of wishing my dresses fit the way they did 20 pounds ago, I will think of new and creative ways to wear my clothes so I feel fabulous. And if I don't feel fabulous? Fuck it, that's what yoga pants and button downs were made for, y'all. Instead of finding all the things I think are wrong with my body, I will make these things reasons for celebration.

This year I will love my stretch marks, because they mean my body has grown and matured in preparation to bear children one day.

This year I will love my acne scars, because it means I have gone through hormonal hell and I'm still okay.

This year I will love the curve of my belly, because it means I have always had enough food to eat.

This year I will love my gray hair, because it means I have gone through stressful times and learned something. It also means I am definitely a descendant of my great-grandfather Maston, whose journey to the West I have followed 100 years later. He meant to become an Okie during the land rush and raise his family here, but had to give up his claim in the end. Well, it took a couple generations, Maston, but we're here and we're going strong.

This year I will love my body, because it is strong and it has carried me 31 years on this earth. It has helped me journey from New Jersey to Tennessee to North Carolina to Colorado to Oklahoma. It has survived car accidents and falls and scrapes and bruises and teenage angst and dance classes and stitches and sprained wrists. It can bend and dance and lift heavy things and run and play with my dogs and snuggle with loved ones. It can be strong. It can be soft. It's my skin-suit that carries around my Me-ness, my Muchness. And it will be celebrated this year, in all its forms and with all its flaws. Alleluia and amen.