Limit #2 Fat people can’t go sleeveless.
Not everything I ever post will be about clothes. Honest.
But today the sun has made a rare appearance and it’s (relatively) hot outside. So my arms are coming out to play.
Behold, my favourite dress!
It also looks amazing when I spin, but I think two spinny photos in the space of a few days is more than people really need.
So I used to buy into this no sleeveless rule wholeheartedly. If there was ever a time my arms weren’t bigger than I wanted, I can’t remember it. They’re covered in hair, when everyone knows women are supposed to be entirely bald below the eyebrows. And they hold my highest concentration of stretch marks. “Nobody wants to see that, least of all me” is a phrase I have said out loud more times than I care to admit.
So how did I get to this:
Answer: the hard way, at first. I sucked it up and put on a sleeveless top, braced myself, and went out into the world. Shockingly, nobody exploded out of horror and disgust. So I did it again, and again, and again, until it just became normal and I hardly ever thought about it.
But I still hated my arms. Since seeing Bruce Almighty I have often spent time imagining what I would change about myself if I could suddenly do anything, and it always started with my arms.
That is, until I discovered strength training. Did you know your arms can do stuff? Impressive stuff. Like push-ups and pull-ups, swinging kettlebells, moving dumbells, handstands, cartwheels, allofthestuff! And the more I focused on what they could do, the less it seemed to matter how they looked.
Now they’re one of my favourite parts of me.
Of course there are bad days when nothing could possibly induce me to remove my hoodie and I go back to my daydreams. But they are few and getting farther between, far outweighed by the days I can’t stop checking out my guns.
Nobody wants to see that? Well fine, they can look the other way. More gun show for me!