Summer’s here. (Isn’t it?). And the annual beach holiday looms closer. I say looms, for me it comes sailing on the winds of time, a cloud of relaxing days, the sea lapping at my toes and the sun beating down on my loose muscles, reading the trash books you never get to read day to day.
For me that is. That’s because I don’t really care that much about my appearance. In so much as I’m happy throwing on some swim shorts and leaping into the ocean, aware that I’m never going to have the physique of Brad Pitt in Fight Club, nor Jack Black in any of his movies. I’m a happy middle ground. And I’ve come to terms with that.
For my partner it’s a different matter. Apparently everybody on the beach will be scrutinising the finer details of her body, obsessed with that mole on her leg of scoffing at her not-at-all-fat fat arms. Rubbish. People don’t care. We should celebrate our bodies as they are, and leap into that sea with relish!
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