Before I start, I want to give a genuine thank you to anyone and everyone who read my first post. Each “like” and comment means so much to me. And for a person who thrives on the validation of others, there is no better feeling than being complimented. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you!

I was on a high after making my first post. And as I do when I feel any level of success; from getting offered my dream job to finding a great deal on women’s dress pants, I called my mom. One of the lovely things about my mother is she celebrates all of my accomplishments with the same level of enthusiasm. As an example, she once asked me to go with her to an automated car wash after she had some difficulties lining up her car tire with the little belt thing that drags the car through the car wash. When I was able to effortlessly line it up on the first try, her expression mirrored that of a 6 year old child on Christmas unwrapping the Leggo set they didn’t think they were getting, and exclaimed, “I’m so proud of you!!” My mom is 75% Italian, which means her facial expressions cannot lie. She considers this one of her proudest accomplishments as a mother. 

Anyway, I called my mom to talk about the blog.  She listened as I went on and on, telling her how many people read it and commented. Just basking in my success as a One-Post Blog Writer. It was a truly wonderful conversation that I wished would last forever. But just like a bowl of queso, a piece of chocolate cake, and a crush on your high school American Government teacher, all good things must come to an end. The bowl of queso runs dry, you run out of crumbs to lick off your plate like a starving dog, and you graduate high school and that teacher’s Facebook profile is set to private, so the crush fizzles and you move on to fantasizing about your androgenous female rugby coach. Similarly, the pure bliss of detailing every piece of external approval I received that day came to an end when my mom asked, “so what are you going to write about next?!” 

If I said that was the first time I thought about that exact question, I would be lying. Truthfully, that fear is what kept me from writing this blog 5 years ago. What if I only had one good post and then ran out of things to say? What if the first post wasn’t even that good and people just complimented me hoping I would shut up? Would people notice if I never posted again? Would they say, “Oh remember when Kristy Gustav…whatever her last name was? She had that one mediocre blog post and then never wrote anything good ever again? Yeah she’s wrapped up in a pyramid scheme selling skin care products out of the trunk of her car now. I’m not going to say I told you so but…”.

In sum, my fear of failing kept me from writing this blog for years, but I was determined to put pen to paper, or pixel to GoogleDoc, and write something postable. So I started to brainstorm possible writing topics. I could write about the time my grandma verbally accosted a UPS chatroom worker after she was dissatisfied with a delivery.  Or I could write about one of my recurring dreams; particularly the one where I’m the only participant in the Spirit Day, “Naked Day”. Or I could write about something even more risque, like “My Thoughts on Hillary Clinton” or “How I Lost My Virginity”. But none of those topics felt right for a second post. Especially because I’m waiting until marriage to talk about Hillary Clinton. 

I wracked my brain for weeks trying to figure out what to write about. Literally weeks. I had every intention of posting every other week, but thank goodness I didn’t disclose that anywhere or you would have ended up reading a hastily written piece detailing the water bed my dopey high school boyfriend had where I lost my…wait a minute. I said I wasn’t going to write about that. 

Lucky for me, Netflix released a real dark horse of a documentary that likely never would have gained the same level of popularity without a nationwide quarantine. I imagine many of you found yourself in a similar position; 3 glasses of wine deep, sitting on your couch with your sweatpants pulled above your belly button to comfortably separate your food baby from your unsupported breasts because there hasn’t been a reason to wear pants or a real bra in weeks, watching this documentary both emotionally invested and filled with shame that you’ve lost 7 hours of your life watching a train wreck. 

This post is not about “Tiger King” per say, but I need to briefly talk about it, so hang with me. As the backstory of each character unfolded, I was left feeling a unique combination of disgust and compassion. A combo I have not felt since watching “Rock of Love 2” in 2007. (SPOILER ALERT) Carol Baskin “allegedly” killed her former husband and has emotionally manipulated a man who looks to have once been a nice, sexually inactive music teacher, to believe she is the Jane Gooddall of big cats, but like, at least she tries hard and gives homes to geriatric tigers. Then there is Joe Exotic, who takes advantage of youthful, drug-addicted, straight men for his own sexual gain, but he obviously has some underlying mental health issues and a history of trauma. That’s the only way to explain those music videos. And then you have Dr. Bhagavan Antle, who is pretty much scum and has a bunch of wives but can’t sexually satisfy any of them so he overcompensates by giving himself a nickname that means “God-Like” and rides around on an elephant. That last character summary isn’t exactly supported by the series. More of a subplot I created on my own, but I don’t think I’m too far off base. 

But then there’s Jeff Lowe. The TapOut t-shirt, low-rise bedazzled jean, flat-brimmed hat wearing criminal. I’m going to keep this short: That guy is trash. I like to think that I can see the good in most people. I mean, I’ll even meet a Nickelback fan and identify at least one redeeming quality. However, the last straw for Jeff Lowe was when he was sitting atop of a picnic table, with the posture of an apathetic high school student in Health class, next to his pregnant, much younger, much more attractive wife, saying that after she gives birth to their daughter, the plan was, “…then we get Lauren back in the gym”. 

At first listen, I did what I normally do when I feel appalled, I posted an Instagram story. At the time, I had no intention of my outrage going any further, but the stars aligned and here we are. A past horoscope probably saw this coming. 

A couple days later, I was talking to my mom on the phone. That sentence is going to come up a lot. The conversation eventually wandered to the inevitability of weight gain during the quarantine and “goal weights”, which are essentially arbitrary numbers that have little reflection on our actual health. How, in many ways, we feel better, sleep better, look better, when we weigh more, but the pressure to strive for a “goal-weight” remains. At the end of the conversation my mom suggested, “Maybe that’s what you should write about”. Then the image of Jeff Lowe driving a lifted truck with a pair of balls hanging from the back, and a bumper sticker that reads, “Love Your Babysitter” drove into my consciousness. I could write a blog about misguided ideals of health while mocking a hot-shot 50 year old who dresses as if he’s headed to watch an ameteur MMA fight in the basement of a strip club? Sign me up. 

My weight has fluctuated pretty significantly throughout my 20’s.  I debated whether to include actual numbers, but I decided to leave them out because the number on the scale is not the point. And in that way, it is the point. Following me? Me neither. Anyway, most people probably haven’t noticed my weight fluctuation, because that’s the thing. No one has a more skewed version of your body than you do. But as I reflect on my personal weight fluctuation, very rarely has my weight been an accurate reflection of my health. 

For example, in the summer of 2014, I was the lightest I had been since high school.  I had defined cheek-bones, toned arms, and a flat stomach, which gave the impression to others that my workout game was on point. But in reality, I was eating an english muffin and a frozen burrito most days, and supplementing my diet with binge drinking 3 times a week, inhaling chicken tenders from the restaurant where I worked, and crying myself to sleep every other night. I wasn’t suppressing my food intake on purpose. This downward spiral was the result of an especially difficult break-up and a pending move across the country. 

Approximately a year later, I was 15 pounds heavier, squatting almost 200 pounds, and running 5 miles like it was nothing. Shortly after that, I ran my first, and only,  ½ marathon. And sure my thighs were literally bleeding as I crossed the finish line from rubbing together for over 2 hours, but that’s not the point.  The point is, when I look at the BMI Chart, which is on of the most well-known scales used to determine health, I was edging on “overweight” when running the ½ marathon, but comfortably in the “healthy” range when on the brink of a mental break down and looking hot as hell in a vodka cranberry stained crop top. 

With 2014 as a strong example, the evidence mounted that my “goal weight”, which I determined without any consultation from an actual health professional, did not in fact correlate with my physical health. So why do I continue to catch myself striving for it? (Yes, I am using present tense. Even when you know an unhealthy pattern, you can fall back into it from time to time. How else do you explain eating Peeps?) This may be too simplistic of an answer, but we live in a society that places worth on only certain body types. We value people based on the most simplistic criteria. Pant size, arm circumference, hair color, nostril size. And I haven’t even touched on what happens when we account for race. Those criteria may shift depending on culture or geographic location, but I believe the tendency to value someone based on appearance remains relatively consistent. I think Tina Fey puts it beautifully in her book, Bossypants, when she said, “Now every girl is expected to have Caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a classic button nose, hairless Asian skin with a California tan, a Jamaican dance hall ass, long Swedish legs, small Japanese feet, the abs of a lesbian gym owner, the hips of a nine-year-old boy, the arms of Michelle Obama, and doll tits. The person closest to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes.”  

I know I am coming at this conversation from a place of privilege. That’s not lost on me. I was born to a petite Italian woman who can fit in the palm of your hand, and a tall, Swedish man who has had the same waist measurement since high school. I’ve always been relatively athletic, as long as the sport doesn’t involve a frisbee.  Also I’m White, which historically comes with literally millions of unearned privileges. I was hesitant to talk about body image, because I figured no one would want to read about body image criticism from a person who rarely has their body criticized. But as a person with privilege, I have the responsibility to criticize the very systems providing me privilege to begin with. And just like almost every person ever, I have struggled, and will likely continue to struggle, with body image and self-love.  

It took a long time, a lot of therapy, and being honest with myself that I will NEVER be able to give up carbs, to begin internalizing that, despite how I look in a crop top, how far I can run without getting a pain in my lower back so deep I can’t bend over to untie my running shoes, how long it’s been since my last facial hair waxing appointment, and how many times I make someone laugh in one blog post, that I’m still worthy of love. So worthy of love, that even if these blog posts turn to shit, you will not find me caught in a pyramid scheme. Unless it’s like, a sure thing. 

So when it comes to health, I am not arguing to throw out the BMI chart altogether, nor am I arguing that people should eat and drink whatever they want as if there are no consequences. Trust me, that’s just a recipe for heartburn, indigestion, a morning spent on the toilet, or a combination of all three that not even Extra Strength Tums can solve. I’m not an expert on physical health or nutrition, so I can’t formulate an argument on this topic based on “science” or “facts”, but the President of the United States just talked about injecting disinfectants to combat the coronavirus, so the bar is low. And I know, I know, I’m taking that out of context. But am I taking it far enough out of context? We aren’t going there. All I have to go off of is my experience, and as a therapist, I believe experiences are just as valuable as hard fact. I am arguing for a more holistic representation of health. And to break from the notion that weight equates to worthiness. 

Body positive pages are becoming more popular on social media and fashion magazines are starting to include and value more diverse representations of women, so there is evidence we are moving in the right direction.  But when I hear some dip wad comment that his pregnant wife needs to get back in the gym after pushing his watermelon sized baby out of her vagina hole, I feel compelled to say something. So whether you come out of this quarantine with a 6 pack of abs, 12 pack of assorted muffins that you made from scratch, or a blog post that you don’t like quite as much as the first one, you’re equally worthy of love. Your weight, how much you exercise, and how long after sunset you consumed a burrito do not correlate with how worthy you are, how lovely you are, and how long you need to wait until you have dessert. You’re worthy of love because you exist. And you should have dessert whenever the fuck you want. 

And I’ll leave you with one last thought. Any body is a bikini body if it’s in a bikini.