Last Sunday, I joined a number of fellow Parrotheads and froze my butt off while working a double aid station at a marathon. The weather was definitely in winter mode; highs in the 30’s, a sharp wind at times, rain, and for a brief time, sleet and snow. But then, that’s the nature of the weather beast this time of year in Arkansas.

It was an asset to have a number of clothes that are loose; I was able to dress in a LOT of layers, including leggings under my jeans and several layers of shirts under my borderline too-big winter coat. I was bundled up and still cold; I’ve lost a great deal of my insulation, it seems.

Our double aid station serves as the two last aid stations on the route — and markers 19.2 and 24.1. When the very last of the racers come through, they’re followed by a police escort, so some of the crew left when the race crowd thinned out and things were put up, and a few of us stayed to cheer on the very last of the walkers. Because — at least to me — even if you’re dead last, you’re a winner just by finishing something as challenging as a marathon in crappy weather.

We made a group pic before we all headed homeward; and I finally noticed it posted on Facebook a couple of days back.

My first thought was not what a rough but fulfilling day it had been, how I was so impressed with the diversity of the folks who challenged themselves to run or walk 26.2 miles, or even the camaraderie of our great group of volunteers that donated their time and enthusiasm to distribute water, Gatorade, pretzels, goo, bananas, and oranges to weary racers.

Nope. My first thought was how fat my legs still look. That immediate disappointment hit me in the gut. Who on earth do I think I am, being proud of a body that is still grossly imperfect?

That day, I felt like I had come so far; sure, I was tired and cold at the end of the day, but the only thing that held me back was not being able to make the first step into an RV. I may have new knees, but that doesn’t mean I’m any taller; I still have short girl problems.

Looking at that photo, though, brought up visceral reactions of feeling like a fraud, like I haven’t made the progress that I have. It’s these unplanned reactions that take me back to my self-defeating behaviors of years ago. Rationally, I realize that those feelings are incorrect perceptions and just leftovers of my insecurities, and that of course my legs are still large; even when I was at my lowest weight, my legs were large. That’s just how I’m built, and losing weight at 57 does not make me into a supermodel when my body type is far different. My reality is that most of my weight was carried in my hips and thighs, so most of my loose skin resides there, now. Just because I’ve lost weight doesn’t mean I’m going to become something I’ve never been.

I try to be as accurate as I can be when assessing my own body; I want the mental image I have of myself to match the physical reality, because dysmorphia doesn’t serve me. I want my choices for my body to be based on rational decisions rather than emotional reactions. And I want to love my body, with all its upgrades (knees) and changes; one of my biggest goals is to be comfortable in my own skin, when I have spent so many years feeling as if I should apologize to everyone I know for being morbidly obese. And for being ashamed.

Those residual feelings may always be there; I wish I could merely erase them, but even 5 1/2 years in, I cannot hope to completely undo the mental damage caused by spending my entire adult life as a morbidly obese woman. These shadows will color my own emotions until I’m fully healed from them, confident that I need make no apologies for who I am, how I look. And the truth is, I never should have felt that way to begin with, but the stigmas I grew up with have been hard to discard.

That’s why writing out this blog is important for me; it’s a reality check, a mental work-through of the emotions that, left unchecked, get a life of their own when they don’t deserve it. We all deserve to live our best lives in whatever skin we are in at this moment.