You know how I posted the other day about all the pretty boys who run at the park? Well, they're not the only ones who run... the pretty girls do, too. I (obviously) don't look at them the same way (with lust)... but I do look (with jealousy). I am jealous... jealous of their no-cellulite thighs and their perky boobs and their flat stomachs. Jealous of how they can run around the trail 3 or 4 times, barely breaking a sweat. I remember being able to do that, back in the dark ages. Back before my knees started making those weird (and scary) sounds... back when my ankles didn't give out for no good reason... before my ass didn't need its own zip code... when I could breathe through my nose (I have GOT to find out what is up with that!).
I tell myself it's OK... that I've got 20+ years of chocolate and Twinkies on them... that I've dealt with life stresses they haven't even imagined yet... that I'm still carrying baby weight (so what if she's 9? She's still MY baby!). That's what I tell myself. But it's not true. And I know it. The truth is, somewhere along the line I stopped making myself a priority. I put myself -- my health, well-being, and happiness -- last on my 'To Do' list. I let myself fall through the cracks. THAT is what happened.
So when I see those pretty girls with their perfect bodies and brand new, barely-begun lives, I want to take them by the shoulders and shake them... I want to yell at them, "You know how you feel right now? How good and powerful and healthy? Remember this feeling! Don't let it slip away. Don't neglect yourself. Always take care of YOU because no one else will do it for you!"
Well, part of me wants to do that. Part of me just wants to kick their perfect, skinny little asses. 'Cause I'm just petty that way.