I don’t work out regularly. I’m a US size 12. I drink too much. I occasionally smoke. I’m creeping up on 40. I eat pretty ok, but not great. I’m 44-34-44.
By all outside standards I should be hiding behind bathing skirts and using slimmer panels. Maybe even sneaking in and out of the pool when no one’s looking. Let that sea cow have her privacy.
But fuck that.
I am strong and curvy and me. I have a body and therefore I’m ready.
To be bluntly honest, I don’t look as good as this in real life, but this is what I’ll be channeling when you see me with your own eyes at the pool or the beach. Me with a soft glow, no filter, and a confidence that lasts for miles. Chin held high, long blonde hair flowing as I swagger and sashay under the big yellow sun.
Confidence is not the domain of only the fit and the young. Confidence is something that is earned and learned, not just handed out by genetics and the clock.
I swim in champagne bubbles and wear ribeye steak; I languish in the endless softness of my mattress and I singe my lungs with smoke under the stars; I suckle on wedges of cheese and dye my lips purple with Tempranillo.
My life is decadent and lush; my body is its reflection and I am proud. You should be proud of your reflection, too.