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Jun. 16th, 2009 03:31 pm
Pride and associated tidbits.
I'm going to do this entry backwards, and possibly in pieces. Look for another entry later that is actually about the parade. This happened after.
--
He peers at me with a look I think I recognize, a glimmer that says I really want to do something that is not exactly socially acceptable and am about to say something ridiculous, and then crooks his hands into a groping position and says "Can I touch your belly?"
Okay, that was not what I was expecting, and because of it I laugh out loud, full-throated. At least one rainbow-clad stranger turns to look at me, but I am no odder than everything else around me and they move on. Cid grins, but doesn't drop his hands. He's serious.
"Yeah alright," I say, recognizing Australia in the way I say the words, the unusual roundness of the vowels, hearing the way Fitzy gave in to things. Cid practically wiggles with glee, and lays his small hands on my stomach. I look down, and then up, raising one eyebrow. Cid's peculiar, but in this at least he has company; every girl I've dated has been fascinated by my belly, perhaps because they are all thin and tall without an extra ounce of fat on their bodies. I tell Cid this, and then go on to say, "Would that my mother thought like you. Or the girls. The second thing she said to me in New Zealand was 'Have you gained weight?' Which was let me tell you just awesome. And this summer we've joined a gym - which actually I enjoy, because I can do yoga there as much as I like - and mom talked me into Weight Watchers - "
"Why?" asks Cid, one hand still on my stomach. His touch is comfortable and comforting, as always. "That's silly. You're fine the way you are. If my parents went around telling me what I should eat there would be trouble."
I shrug. "To learn to eat better, I suppose. And cook. And it stops arguments, and I am pretty invested in an arguement-free summer."
Cid makes a face. Privately, I agree, and when he says only half jokingly that it will lose me girls, I cannot help but nod. I go through stages of loving and hating the way I look, although there are some things about myself I will always adore - my smile, my shoulders, the strength in my legs.
I think about it the whole rest of the day, and the whole rest of the week. And I wonder what price an arguement-free summer. I know I could stand to lose weight - I felt better in my riding when I was a little lighter, which I suppose is reason enough - but I worry about my reasons for doing so. Not about my reasons for working out - I like feeling strong, being able to move quickly and lift things and bend in interesting ways - but I am no longer sure I want to be doing this. It's good to know how to eat healthily and cook for yourself... but is this the right way to go about it?
Cid so often challenges my way of thinking.
--
He peers at me with a look I think I recognize, a glimmer that says I really want to do something that is not exactly socially acceptable and am about to say something ridiculous, and then crooks his hands into a groping position and says "Can I touch your belly?"
Okay, that was not what I was expecting, and because of it I laugh out loud, full-throated. At least one rainbow-clad stranger turns to look at me, but I am no odder than everything else around me and they move on. Cid grins, but doesn't drop his hands. He's serious.
"Yeah alright," I say, recognizing Australia in the way I say the words, the unusual roundness of the vowels, hearing the way Fitzy gave in to things. Cid practically wiggles with glee, and lays his small hands on my stomach. I look down, and then up, raising one eyebrow. Cid's peculiar, but in this at least he has company; every girl I've dated has been fascinated by my belly, perhaps because they are all thin and tall without an extra ounce of fat on their bodies. I tell Cid this, and then go on to say, "Would that my mother thought like you. Or the girls. The second thing she said to me in New Zealand was 'Have you gained weight?' Which was let me tell you just awesome. And this summer we've joined a gym - which actually I enjoy, because I can do yoga there as much as I like - and mom talked me into Weight Watchers - "
"Why?" asks Cid, one hand still on my stomach. His touch is comfortable and comforting, as always. "That's silly. You're fine the way you are. If my parents went around telling me what I should eat there would be trouble."
I shrug. "To learn to eat better, I suppose. And cook. And it stops arguments, and I am pretty invested in an arguement-free summer."
Cid makes a face. Privately, I agree, and when he says only half jokingly that it will lose me girls, I cannot help but nod. I go through stages of loving and hating the way I look, although there are some things about myself I will always adore - my smile, my shoulders, the strength in my legs.
I think about it the whole rest of the day, and the whole rest of the week. And I wonder what price an arguement-free summer. I know I could stand to lose weight - I felt better in my riding when I was a little lighter, which I suppose is reason enough - but I worry about my reasons for doing so. Not about my reasons for working out - I like feeling strong, being able to move quickly and lift things and bend in interesting ways - but I am no longer sure I want to be doing this. It's good to know how to eat healthily and cook for yourself... but is this the right way to go about it?
Cid so often challenges my way of thinking.