My story starts out when I was 11 years old. I had to buy softball pants for the new season. Somehow between seasons, unbeknownst to me, I grew hips. My Mother and I went down to Warners, went to the girls section and just looking at the pants, I knew, I was NOT going to fit into them. After trying on the largest pants they had to offer in girls, I was sent to the boys section. Ya, because boys have hips and that was going to work. I was so embarrassed and didn’t even want to play softball any more. We ended up buying a pair that “kinda” fit. When I say “kinda” I mean I could at least pull them up BUT because I had such a tiny waist, I had to wear a belt. I was a mess.
No one told me I was going to get hips. No one told me that I wasn’t fat either. That would’ve been nice to hear. So I spent most of my teenage years thinking I was fat. I know, not uncommon with teenage girls but it just seemed like no one else had the thunder thighs that I had. It didn’t help that back in the day, most jeans didn’t come in the variety of types as they do now. No curvy, boot cut, slim cut or boyfriend jeans. Just jeans. If they didn’t fit, you went up in a size. Skinny waist + big hips = a very dorky looking Erin.
Again, I wasn’t fat but wasn’t the healthiest either. I also wasn’t told that once you hit your teen years, you can’t eat like a 7 year old anymore. When I was 15, thankfully my Mother got on a healthy kick. And not just a “I’m going to eat cabbage for a week and lose 10 lbs” kind of kick. A “I’m going to read labels and consider what’s healthy for me and my family” kind of kick. I embraced this kind of thinking. I considered what’s going into my body and what I’m going to get out of it. I started running. I slimmed down. I accepted my body.
Those damn hips never went away!
OOOOOH, you mean they’re apart of me and I should embrace them? (Ya, right!)
I kept running anyway. I hated it. I sweated, felt like puking and I sucked at it. When I first started I couldn’t even run for more than two minutes. But I kept at it. Why? Because it worked. Curves—yes, thunder thighs—no. Eventually I learned to love/obsess about running. It was a form of escape and released the stress of the day that a pint of Ben and Jerry’s couldn’t. Believe me, I tried.
I wish could tell my 11 year old self that we would run a half marathon one day. More than one! And a whole bunch of 5 and 10ks! Oh and how super bummed we get when we miss a good day of running.
Today I will love my curves. Tomorrow—maybe. Next time I’m in dressing room—probably not but at the age of thirty-szhdflkf, there not going away. I love my curves.