Yer roots are showin'...

Growing it all out.

You'll hear women say it often: "My natural hair color? I don't remember!" Chuckle.

My hair's been everything from pink to purple to burgundy; from Manic Panic "Deadly Nightshade" to Toriphile ginger. At one point I rocked the skunk stripes.

And then one day it occurred to me that the hair color that looked best on me was my natural plain-old brown. And I've kept it plain-old brown ever since.

What I've come to realize is that I've never given this sort of trust to the nature of my body.

"My natural body? I don't remember!"

From the time it occurred to me to be self-conscious about the way I looked, I've done every terrible thing to my body this side of cosmetic surgery to change it: obsessive exercise, starving, purging, smoking, methamphetamines, cocaine, caffeine pills, crash diets, and often several of these at once. Over the last 20 years my body has seen a pretty steady 30 pound yo-yo swing.

Today though, I threw out the size 4s. I'm going back to my natural body. And I expect to hate every minute of it, at least at first.

Over the course of the last year (2012), I did something I haven't done probably since I was 14. I didn't crash diet. Not once. I exercised more than I have in recent memory, but that's not saying much. It certainly wasn't excessive. And I let myself eat things. A lot of things. Things I previously wouldn't have allowed myself to eat. Like pasta. Delicious pasta. I exceeded my ration of "annual bagel." I ATE 2 DONUTS. But I hated myself every time I indulged. I have a terrible relationship with food.

I love food. I love to cook food. I love to eat food. I will eat all the food until it's gone. And then I will hate and punish myself for it. Every. Time. And then I will eat some more.

Early this year, I counted calories for one week. The exercise made very clear my propensity to overeat, even taking into account physical activity--and you better believe I was logging the 1/2 hour of ukulele practice and the 10 minutes of dish-washing. I earned 15 more calories! Those 3 cherry tomatoes were MINE! But the calorie logging forced me to do something else, which was to cook at home more. It gave me control over the quality of ingredients and the portion sizes. I'm less inclined to eat so much meat. It's not likely that I'll ever make french fries. Ain't no hidden corn syrup or TBHQ or hydrogenated soy in my kitchen! So now I seem to be eating better, and a bit more reasonably, and I earn a handful of calories every time I clean up! Win!

The smarter eating habits coupled with normal amounts of enjoyable exercise are now showing me my "roots," or the basic shape my natural, healthy body should have. I've gained a lot of muscle mass, so my pants don't fit; same with some fitted shirts and skirts. Hell, nothing I own not made of spandex fits me anymore. I feel a little like the Hulk, which is totally sexy, right?

I should also mention that I've never thought of myself as being or capable of being voluptuous. And here's the ridiculous reason why: I have small breasts. And in my mind, small breasts can never equal voluptuousness. But I do have hips. And a butt. And big ol' head-squeezing thighs. But for all my life I thought small breasts meant I should look like this:
  

 

But what my body wants to look like is this:

WHICH I SHOULD BE REALLY FUCKING EXCITED ABOUT. 

I'm tired of living my life hating how I look, but yet yearning for how I looked last year, or the year before. It's a worthless waste of non-calorie-burning energy. And It's high time I stop being afraid of having my picture taken. Because I am. Photos of me are one of my least favorite things.

These are not easy admissions to make. As a self-proclaimed champion and celebrator of body-diversity, self-acceptance and self-love, it feels damn hypocritical of me to unleash these demons. But there they are. I don't expect they'll be easy to exorcise.

But here's to growing it out. Here's to practicing what I preach. Here's to embracing the belly. And here's to loving every minute of it.