Weighty matters

This is the post that has me stuck. This is the post I need to write to get unstuck.

I don’t want to. I’d rather do other un-fun things like shave my legs and file my taxes.    

But I’ve grown tired of existing in this stand-still place.

So, here goes nothing. Or possibly everything.

My body.

My body has served me well for the past 49 years. That’s almost five decades. Half a century. I’ve been around as long as soft contact lenses, Astroturf and the Pillsbury Doughboy, folks.

Growing up, I was of average weight. I was thick and muscular. I had a softball player’s physique.

Thanks to a steady diet of cafeteria food, late night snacking and beer, I put on the freshman 15 in college and held onto it for the next four years.

I went through a weird girly phase post-college. It was like I had been abducted by aliens. I started growing and painting my fingernails. I had long hair. I lost weight. I was skinny. I wore dresses and heels and lacy thigh-high nylons from Victoria’s Secret.

I got married.

I came out.

I got divorced.

I started to put the weight back on.

That’s me … under the covers.

I went from Sporty Lesbian (the sixth and lesser known Spice Girl) to soft butch to butch. And with each transition, I added weight.

The weight was my armor. It protected me from the world. It insulated me from myself.

Everything bounced off my armor. The stares, the sirs, the disapproval, real and imagined.

I don’t need the extra weight anymore. It has served its purpose. It is weighing me down. It is stopping me from living my best butch life.

I want to be lighter for a variety of reasons. To be healthier and to have more energy and to move more easily through this world. To look that good in a tucked in flannel shirt and big ol’ silver belt buckle. To wear baggy jeans that feel like home. To swagger a little harder and a little longer.  

But also to complete my butch vision for myself that I will draw with straight lines and sharp angles.