Thigh Gap Vs. Thigh Clap

By now, you've heard the phrase "thigh gap", right?  It is yet another nearly impossible goal for women to aim for as they attempt to lose enough weight and work out enough so that, when they stand with their knees together, their thighs do not touch.  For the sake of beauty, of course.

Thigh gap will get you likes on Instagram.  Thigh gap will not do much else.  It, of course, will not land you a great-paying job or earn you an education.  It will not "snag you a man" or encourage people to respect and admire you.

(Please ignore the punctuation error in the above
image from someecards.com.) 

I don't have thigh gap.  I mean, I did when I was like four, but it wasn't a thing back then, so whatever.  I have what I like to refer as "thigh clap".  Regardless of my weight, my thighs rub together when I walk.  That's the way many women are built.  Our legs, they cheer us on.  They move us.  Sometimes they look appealing in skinny jeans.  Sometimes they don't.  Some of us live in A-line skirts to hide our thighs, and some of us embrace them with jeggings and cut-off shorts.  Meghan Trainor says boys like bigger girls, right?  

(Please do not get me started on how disappointed I am with the twisted message she is sending a whole generation.  I don't have time for that post now.)

Most people who know me are aware that I've struggled with my weight most of my life.  There have been various reasons for it, and I can blame anything from heredity to asthma to gluttony to flat-out apathy, but shifting the blame never made me feel better, nor did it even help me become healthier.  Like many women, I've suffered through the rollercoaster of fluctuating weight.  I have "fat" clothes and "not-as-fat" clothes.  I've fit into everything from a size 6 to a size 14 and a small to an extra-extra large.  I've loved my reflection; I've hated it.  I've scornfully skimped on calories and I've furtively embraced them like a clandestine lover.

To combat the "skinnier is better" rhetoric, plenty of body acceptance movements have emerged.  Women purposely post photos of themselves, proudly wearing clothing they "shouldn't".  Companies have launched campaigns designed to showcase curvier and heavier body types.  A size 22 model has been signed to a major label.  Catchy pop songs talk lasciviously about thick booties and sexy, wide hips.

But what's it all for?  Celebrities we love - especially curvy ones - continue to photoshop their own images on social media.  Fat kids still get mocked on the playground.  Heavier men and women still have to pay an extra $2 for larger sizes.  And we (me included) still buy Spanx!  I admit that I am sometimes one of the naysayers who doubts when seeing an image of an obese person insisting he/she is in "perfect health".  Yet then I feel guilty, thinking that it's not my place to judge.  But am I judging?  Or am I concerned?  Am I relieved?  Am I justifying my own appearance my comparing it to another's?  

I - as a petite, plus-sized woman - still feel shame when I have to pull on my "fat pants".  I still berate myself when I feel that I eat too many calories in a day.  I still throw some serious side eye when I see the teens in the mall sporting their itty-bitty crop tops and their high-waisted shorts.  I still struggle in the knowledge that my husband loves me and wants me, regardless of how I see myself.  I constantly walk the line between wanting to love my body exactly as it is - and wanting to force it to change so I feel better about it.  It's a daily battle.  Even when I feel beautiful in the morning - my hair is bouncy, I'm trying a new lip color, or I'm sporting my favorite chunky shoes - when I see a woman I perceive as more beautiful than me, I feel like shriveling up.  

I hate it.

I hate feeling, in my mind, like I am constantly in competition with other women.  It doesn't even make sense.  What do I gain?  What do I prove?  Does her beauty diminish mine?  Do I lose value in her presence?  It isn't even something I consciously do.  Thoughts just pop into my head, and I realize I'm focusing more on what the girl in the Starbucks line is wearing than I am about the cute little baby in my stroller, or the blessings in my life.

Worst of all, I still seem to think that God's love for me depends on my appearance.

Even seeing that thought actually typed out makes me sick.

The Creator of the Universe, who loved me enough to send his Son to die for me - is actually judging me based on the size pants I wear?

It's funny because it's true.
Image from someecards.com.

More likely, his heart is breaking because I am letting my figure affect my joy and peace.  More likely, his desire is for me to make healthy choices that allow me to enjoy his creation more.  More likely, he wants me to know that he made me the way he did for a reason.  And that he gave me the ability to make decisions that positively impact my health and my self-image.  

He gave me legs so I could walk and run.  And become healthier.  

He just wants to walk alongside me.  And he doesn't care in the least if my thighs touch or not. 

Yay, God!

Look.  It's nice to hear, but the point of this post is not for people to feel obligated to tell me I'm pretty.  In some people's eyes, I'm sure I am.  Others see me as overweight, or they see large pores, or split ends, or calloused heels.  They see cellulite or ragged fingernails.  Okay.  Deep down, I do know that I am beautiful.  In many ways.  It's a shame that the same society that scorns women who don't meet the accepted standard of beauty also mocks those with the audacity to openly consider themselves beautiful.  So, I can think it, and I should act like it, but I shouldn't say it, because then I'm selfish and vain.  

I don't know if there will ever be any kind of real resolution on this issue.  I'd like to say that "healthy" is the sexiest kind of body, but even that has a million definitions to a million people.  I'm just deciding that I have to love my body for both its current limitations as well as its potential.  There are a thousand words to describe it - curvy, pale, soft, short, basic, cute, chubby, zaftig (that's my favorite) - but only one that actually matters:

Mine.

And it's the only one I get.

It's time to be grateful for that, no matter what society tells me I should be wearing, or weighing, or eating, or thinking.  I am grateful for my body.