There’s Junk in my Trunk.

I’ll be the jam in your jelly rolls.

I used to say there should be a weight limit on bikinis and spandex. Whether I was fat, chunky, thick, slim, skinny, no matter how I looked, whenever I saw an obese person in a really tight outfit or just wearing a sports bra and very short shorts I felt embarrassed for them.

The texture of cellulite and buckles of uneven bulges of fat, rippling in the folds of workout shorts caught my eyes immediately. The extra armpit roll, squeezed between arms flapping 2 minutes after they wave, screaming, “look at me!”

What a hypocrite I was…am… to notice someone’s body and let it determine my judgment of someone’s ability, cleanliness, health. I thought to myself, did they not care or did they not know how they looked on the outside? Why wouldn’t they cover that up? How could they possibly be so oblivious to the laughing and pointing?

But oh no, they knew and didn’t care what anyone thought. I completely admired them for blocking out the hate and straight-up intentionally degrading comments coming from men and women and even kids- just so they could dress appropriately for the weather and their hike.

Me, I’m projecting how I think of myself onto other people, mainly other women. I am one of those women.

My thighs rub and I have extra skin from losing a lot of weight that presents as rolls, tuffins and muffins. I have flabby bat arms and bumps, scars and a Buddha belly from two cesarean deliveries and a shady gallbladder surgery. I can keep going if I want, but this is something I’ve been worked on for years.

For more than half of my life I’ve been teased, ridiculed and shamed for being overweight, which cues this train of thought.

For than more than half of my life I’ve been wearing as much clothing as possible to cover my imperfections, sweating like a polar bear at the equator.


This is a very chunky version of me from last summer on Mt. Major. 15 years ago, this photo would have never seen the light of day… neither would my arms or that chunky knee bump. Life is too short to wait for the gondola. Sure, it may take an extra 2 hours, but the view is worth every drop of sweat while you’re perched high above in your big girl panties.

Now, I’m on a better track to self love. It is was it is (I hate that phrase). While yes I can change it, but I still have to live in this skin today. I’ve been trying to try to accept my body and maintain my dignity for as long as I can remember. All I can do now is take it day by day-try to keep my brain in line with my heart-and wear wicking knickers to keep from getting swamp crotch.

Here, these people, the chunky-dunkies, are just trying to stay cool. They’re trying to enjoy Mother Nature without chub-rub. Coming from someone whom sweats and turns red walking 100 yards, I may be beet-red, lumpy and sweaty, but I’ll be at the top of the mountain, beet-red, lumpy, sweaty and dressed appropriately for MY body.

Now, when I see the chub rock busting through the trail with only her sports bra and shorts on, I don’t judge her. I praise her for getting off the couch and getting outside.

I’m rubber and you’re glue. Whatever you say- bounces off of me and sticks to you. Plus, although I certainly do NOT condone violence, I’m a pretty big girl, I can kick your ass.

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