Five Tips to Lose Weight for Summer

The Bloomsday of the Beach Body (Now with 30% More Dysmorphia). An Homage to Eimear McBride

One. Kale yes kale no kale kale kale.

Out of the fridge and wilting already. Always wilting bitter leaf green leaf chew it swallow it hate it. Kale is good for you they say. It lies. Should’ve bought pizza. Kale will cleanse me they say. Cleanse me of what? The FUPA? The shame? The winters spent under blankets eating toast with butter thick as my thighs? Chew swallow regret chew again. This my life.

Two. Jogging.

Runners too tight. Cutting off circulation. Already a blister. Run, they say burn calories they say. This road is a long pilgrimage my will is short and my breath. Shallow. Ragged. Knees burn, not the calories. Each bounce off the pavement a cruel reminder I am not built for this. Oh God is that the neighbor Don’t look at me and don’t wave. Breathe keep going breathe keep going I hate this I hate this I hate this.

Three. Salad. Always salad.

Salad is penance. More greens no salad dressing. Cream has sins. Can you eat without sinning? We try. Stir lettuce in slow orbits around the bowl, green planets spinning in the void.

Avoid.

Yes to chocolate that gravitates to my luscious hips. Yes to life yes to bread yes to cakes piled high with butter frosting.

But not before swimsuit season. Not before the judgment of the beach people.

Four. The Mirror.

Strip it all off stand naked with furtive glances at belly, thighs, arms soft and pale as proven dough.

Suck it in breathe it out uncurl unfurl suck it in again sore. Without a flat stomach beach season is venom. Pinch the flesh until pink corpuscles erupt like sun blisters. Count the dimples like pieces of silver. The clink of betrayal. Turn sideaway oh much worse.

When did I become a stranger in this body?

Practice poses, hands on hips to hide the waist. Shoulders back, lift my tits. The mirror tells the truth. Soft where I should be hard. Round where I should be flat what else could I be? Is this what failure looks like?

I need a fucking tan. Or better lighting or a new mirror. Smash it maybe. Smash the mirror, smash the shame, smash the swimsuit industrial complex.

But also maybe smash a burger.

Five. Futility.

Too late too late too late. Summer’s here and I am never never ready.

Swimsuit season, they call it. Body shame season, more like.

Should’ve started in January too late now I’m begging five pounds off five days.

Buy the swimsuit anyway. Tuck suck surrender. Petty Lycra refuses to negotiate with my ribcage. Black always black. It’s slimming they say. Black lies like the kale chips that taste of sawdust.

I need the lies. One more day one more day of salad one more evening jog one more beleaguered pose in the spiteful mirror.

Maybe next year I’ll be worthy of swimsuit season.

Now we are out of time soft imperfect paranoid rising naked before the waves. The waves do not care the sea does not care the sea the sea rolls stupid eternal shapeless full of salt and nothing the sea the sea the sea washes over abs over thighs over shame over years.

I eat ice cream, lusty chocolate sauce washes down my chin. Glides between my breasts. The sand sizzles the dimples of my arse, a rebellion of stretch marks and sunburns that are all mine. Let them stare I. Owe no one symmetry. The world orbits free and indifferent. Fat chance thin chance.

That kale chip never stood a chance.

____________________________

It’s iced coffee season! Let’s keep this experiment caffeinated.