Oh boy, here goes nothing.

I’ve debated over the years to write about this topic. I get justifiably hesitant because:

  1. This is the internet and the following post is something that is incredibly personal and personal + internet don’t really seem to go hand and hand, no matter how few people (Mom) read this blog. Simply put, I’m scared of giant, blowtard, asshole, meanies. So GO AWAY MEANIES. NO ONE WANTS YOU HERE. JUST PACK YOUR INTERNET BAGS AND GET OUT!
  2. I use this blog as one of my many outlets to write in a silly manner, and while I will do my best to use my own side splitting voice on this particular subject, I know this topic is far from the absolutely brilliant, clever, genius comedy fodder normally found here. (I mean, did you SEE my post about LA TRAFFIC? Ground breaking.) This post will be a little different, and something different is always scary because people judge different and I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO GET OUT OF HERE YOU JERK MEANIES. STOP. READING. JUST GO BACK TO MEANIE-VILLE AND DRINK YOUR MEANIE COFFEE AND READ YOUR MEANIE PAPER AND LEAVE THIS NON-MEANIE PLACE. BUH-BYE.
  3. Most of all, I am nervous because the topic is cliché, non-original, and super duper embarrassing.

The fact of the matter is, I fucking hate my body. And that is what I want to write about today.

I chose to finally write about it because:

  1. This blog has become a reflection of who I am. I write it on a month-to-month basis and it is always nice to sift through these posts to see where I am emotionally, mentally, comedically, and timeline-ly. Because of that, it is a huge disservice to myself not to write about this subject. Not acknowledging it only tells half the story of who I am and how I view the world. I unfortunately deal with body image issues on an alarmingly and idiotically regular basis. No matter how painful or ridiculous, it is a huge part of my life. Pretending it’s not does FUCKING NOTHING. Pushing it aside does FUCKING NOTHING. It’s basically lying, and FYI, I’m no liar. Yeah, I’m pretty much a 2015 Abraham Lincoln. Or a 2015 George Washington. (I’m whichever one chopped down the cherry tree. Or did they do it together? Note to self: Google that.) Truly, this problem doesn’t define me and writing about it may in fact take away the little power it has. I am not writing this to make anyone feel sorry for me, or to make anyone feel better, and it’s definitely not something I want a ton of attention for (no phone calls please!) but…
  2. It’s a topic I happen to know a shit ton about. It’s, like, right there for me to use. You guys, writer’s block is bullshit. You can write about anything if you can get over how humiliating and terrifying it is. (Note to self: Fantastic motivational poster.)
  3. It’s actually kinda fucking funny.

Disclaimer: I am not an expert. I am not representing all women. Please, please don’t be mean to me and don’t compare yourself to me either. If you take away one thing from this blog it’s this: Everyone’s Got Their Shit. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Lc4pqP7gyU)

Great, that’s done. First, a little history…

Me and My Belly – A Frenemy Story For The Ages!

I started hating my body around age 16, when I went to a theater camp and discovered that being a size medium meant I was bigger than a size small, (MIND BLOWN) and for some reason I got to thinking that being a size small would make me more important, more desirable, more talented, and would really showcase that oh so attainable ideal of “Effortless Perfection” that all women in the world seemed to have besides me.

I wasn’t asking for much.

The body hate truly blossomed in college, when at the end of my freshman year I gained eight pounds but equated it to twenty, and that following summer I became obsessive about my calorie intake, my extensive time at the gym, and the super important number on the scale. Once I got back to what I thought was my normal weight, I decided I should really push myself to again fit in something labeled with my now beloved letter “s.”

I returned to college, still on this quest, thinking it was as noble and dignifying as finding the Holy Grail. The problem was, I was never going to be able to fit into an “s.” I had these little things called bones and height and genetics that got in the way. Still, I pushed and fought, punishing myself mentally if I ever had a “slip up” and resorting to extreme measures when my basic plan wasn’t getting the job done. I was CERTAIN that if I could just get to that specific number-thingy on the scale thingy and wear a letter “s” thingy, then I would finally be confident and happy and perfect like all the other small girls I saw who were clearly confident and happy and perfect.

I could go into specifics about the horrifying lengths I went to attain this hypothetical, non-existent body, but here’s the rub: I don’t want to give potential self body-hating readers any sure-fire weight loss tips.

And that’s how I know I had a problem. Because I was once one of those people.

I KNOW some, not all but a very small few, will read this to find out what I did to be my skinniest, what terrible things I did, and mimic it.

Pretty heavy, huh? Let’s take a moment to think of puppies, just to lighten the mood. And bubbles. Puppies and bubbles. Feel better? Okay, and we’re back.

I remember in college, I would read magazine sob stories of famous women who had battled eating disorders and instead of thinking, “That’s no way to live, I tell you. NO WAY TO LIVE!” I would think, “Oh, that’s how she did it! Maybe I can incorporate what she did into my life somehow! GIGGLE GIGGLE SMILEY FACE WINKY I TOTALLY HAVE THIS UNDER CONTROL.”

What makes this all the more complicated and layer-filled, is the fact that I am a pretty fucking smart, insightful, kickass, feminist, no-nonsense woman. I have always had the wherewithal to know that my diet/exercise line of thinking was unhealthy, irrational, illogical, and god damn ridiculous. This eating problem I had developed did not, in any way, match my character.

But I just couldn’t stop.

Eventually the wheels fell off this unattainable, unmaintainable, unhealthy wagon, and I broke down… like a wagon. (Wow. I totally nailed that wagon analogy.)

The thing they never tell you about finally getting to a size “s” (when you really are a size “M,”) is that you aren’t all that happy and confident when you finally get there. It was always slipping, always out of my grasp. I think I was an “s” for a day. And on that day, all I did was find other things to hate about myself. (My skin, my hair, my inability to poop…) It was truly a never-ending cycle.

I know I am not new in saying this. I’m not even sure this helps those who are going through the same thing. When I hear other people’s stories, it’s honestly never made me feel better, per-se. The stories just made me feel less alone. Which, sadly, is not the same thing.

But, periods, am I right ladies? #ladyproblemz #boyzjustdontunderstand #societynormz

Anyway, after hitting rock bottom, I began seeing a counselor and a nutritionist. And now all is fine and I’m cured of everything and everything is okay and things are perfect.

The end.


Nah. It would be nice if that were true though, right?

The good news is, I have come a long way since then. Seeking professional help, helped. Having supportive friends and loved ones who reminded me of my self-worth, helped. Vagina jokes, as always, helped. That chapter of severity in self-body hating is forever closed. I know I will never get that bad again. Phew.

Initially, I had to change. I actually made myself pretty fucking sick after that year in college, and had to go to a gastroenterologist and have my insides examined and then I had to drastically change my diet in order to undo all the inside damage I had caused. Fun stuff. Good times. It was super sexy and, oh yeah, IT WAS TOTALLY PREVENTABLE AND COMPLETELY NOT WORTH IT.

Today, I think I have fallen in the more “normal zone” of female body hating how they look. (Note: Jury is still out if the “normal zone” is in fact a “healthy zone.” I can honestly say I don’t know. Maybe the latest Cosmo will tell me. )

In this year alone, I have:

  1. Checked my tummy in the mirror more often than is remotely socially acceptable.
  2. Posted a picture of myself on instagram wearing a bikini because that week I felt was a “good week” and it was important for me to brag about it and gain self-esteem solely through likes from strangers.
  3. Cried a ton when I discovered was too big for a dress that I wore once over ten years ago.
  4. Explained to a nurse at an urgent care that I don’t weigh myself, partly because it was suggested by my nutritionist from a while back, but mostly because I don’t know if I can handle the mental breakdown that would occur if I ever did. I’ve instead chosen to live in ignorance. And then that nurse made fun of me. And I was there because I had strep throat so why getting my weight in the first place was soooooooo important is beyond me, but then again, I am no jerk face urgent care nurse, so what do I fucking know?
  5. Looked at a picture of me on my fridge and thought “Man, I look terrible. I’m so embarrassed. Chunk-meyster 5000.” And then, like a day later, looked at the same picture and thought, “Oh hey sexy lady, I look pretty good.” IT WAS THE SAME GODDAMN PICTURE, TAFEL. NOTHING CHANGED ABOUT THAT PICTURE, DUDE. WTF?
  6. Mentioned to my boyfriend that I thought I might have some body dysmorphia and he rolled his eyes and said, “Ya think?”
  7. BUT THEN, in a fun twist of brain analysis events I found myself thinking, “Ali, you can’t assume that every negative thing you see in yourself is stemmed from body dysmorphia, because that is just an excuse to not make the change you need to look better!” HAHAHAHAHA ISN’T THIS SO MUCH FUN?!? WELCOME TO MY BRAIN, WORLD!
  8. Enjoyed delicious food and satisfying alcohol and agreed that if the trade off to having those things equaled having a soft, non-flat belly, then so be it.
  9. Took note that I was eating a lot of crappy snacks at work and instead focused on healthier, smaller options because I like taking care of my body.
  10. Had ice cream at work.
  11. Enjoyed working out and went for it with all my heart, achieving- goals and feeling motivated.
  12. Dreaded working out and begrudgingly went through the motions.
  13. Had my boyfriend cook clean, simple, low calorie meals.
  14. Had my boyfriend make me some nachos.
  15. Wrote a ukulele song about being constipated. (Coming to a youtube near you!)
  16. Wondered if people reading this blog post have also judged my pictures on Facebook, thinking I could do better, measuring my success on how I look.
  17. Wondered if friends and family have done the same.
  18. Wondered if this entire topic was even worth writing about. (Does it seem too attention-needy? Effortless Perfection Girls cannot come across as attention needy. “I’m Breezy!”)
  19. Certain that this obsession doesn’t help the women’s movement in any way, shape, or form.
  20. Understood that there are worse problems in the world, and that this is all first world, white girl, basic bitch, bat shit crazy problems.

I KNOW I am not a cow, my size falls into the single digits, and I’m not at risk for any major health problems. I know that. I just don’t know I know that? You follow? No? Yes? Oh wait, this is just a blog post, you can’t answer me.

My current body hating is like a rash; it seems to flare up at times of immense stress and exhaustion. (Though to be clear, it is NOT itchy.) When things in my life seem out of my control, (i.e. my career, my money, the time in which I will inevitably meet Ben Affleck and I won’t be prepared for it…) it’s incredibly easy for me to put my energy toward something I think I can control, my body, in order to not deal with issues I can’t. (“There’s Ben Affleck. NOW WHAT DO I SAY?”) It’s what some would call the old brain “switcheroo.” (Note: Nobody calls it that.)

It’s a very old story.   (“Tale as old as time. Song as old as rhyme. Beauty thinks she’s a beast!!!!!!”) And I know I’m not the only one living it.


While this whole body image thing totally sucks, it’s also kind of interesting in terms of how the brain works, right? Because it’s not like I’m ever solely focused on this issue at all times. I kinda have a lot of things going on in my life. I’m one multi-tasking son-of-a-gun. Check it: I can simultaneously hate my body, think of jokes, type an email, eaves drop on co-workers and hum Jason Derulo’s “Want To Want Me”, AT THE SAME TIME. Amazing, huh? Human beings are amazing. (I mean, I’m pretty sure tigers don’t care about their belly fat. Maybe it’s why we’re the top of the food chain and not fucking tigers.) It’s like these negative thoughts are simply a branch on the great tree that my brain is operating on at all times.

But I tell you what, dear reader. That branch? I’m fucking tired of it.

Someday I want to look at a picture and see a happy memory with friends, not a tiny bulge in my belly because I decided to eat dim sum that day.

Someday I want to feel good in the outfit I chose to wear that morning, but not worry or think about it for the rest of the day.

Someday I want to set a goal for health reasons and not for vanity reasons.

Someday I want to believe my boyfriend when he calls me beautiful and perfect.


So there. I did it. I wrote about my body and how much I hate it and blah blah blah. I strangely feel a lot better. When you take a step back and see it written out like this, it all seems pretty fucking stupid, doesn’t it?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go work out and then I’m going to have a beer, and everything is going to be fine.

-One L

“I’m 160 pounds and I can catch a dick whenever I want.” Amy Schumer, you’re my hero.


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