I have a confession to make...

I think this is what it boils down to: I think that parts of me are beautiful. I like my eyes, I like my feet, I think I have nice calves and pretty rounded shoulders. I like the nape of my neck so much that I put a tattoo there for decoration, and I have even grown to like the fact that I have big muscly athletic thighs and I like the way my triceps stick out a little and I think that my face shape is pleasing. I inherited some nice lips, I have grown to love my nose and ears and even am a little thankful that I have to dye my mousy brown hair because its a great way to express my creativity. I have shapely (large) breast which I sometimes complain about, because they do become a nuisance, but I wouldn't change them too much, even if I could. I love that I'm strong in body. I love that I can walk and ride a bike and that I found an exercise program that I like, and that I have the energy to chase after my peanut and that I can play.

But I don't focus on the great parts of me. I focus on what I loathe, and then the loathing consumes me and I loathe the whole package. I've always been amazed by women who, while not ascribing to society's beauty box, manage to pull off looking terrifically confident and sexy.

And I want that. I want to be confident and assured and beautiful and sexy just being me, and not feeling like I have to cower behind society and not feeling like the fat on my consumes my joie de vivre. And right now, because I'm feeling challenged on my weight, and I can blame my weight for the infertility (which may or may not be the problem), and the infertility thing is so volatile right now, I'm hating these extra 60 pounds so much that I'm hating myself.

Perfect

Poem: "Perfect," by R.T. Smith, inscribed "For Jerome Ward," from Trespasser © Louisiana State University Press.

Perfect

Preparing the salad,
you said the word perfect in botany denotes a species
bisexual and self-sufficient,
while we cut carrot roots,
inflorescence of broccoli, the ripened ovaries of olive
and the bulb of the red onion.
Every seed, you said, holds an embryo inside.
It's all so simple,
and we call plants primal because they survive
without devouring one another
and often work their
increase alone.
Still, we never envy the spiral of cabbage leaves
or a potato's albino eye,
as perfect comes from the Latin for complete,
and we prefer this process of emerging,
two imperfect men happily whittling dinner for their loved ones,
as windblown pollen dusts the windows,
our bright knives clicking on the board.