Own worst critics

Jessica and I went for a massage today. We went to a place she raves about, one both close and with a very personable, welcoming atmosphere. We signed up for a couples massage, where both of us were in the same room, and could talk during the massage, but only after I agreed not to hold her hand during the massages.

Now, I am admittedly not particularly shy about my body. I won't go flaunting it or wear particularly revealing clothes (or even a bikini these days!), but doctors appointments, laser hair treatments down there, gynecological appoints and the like faze me very little. "Here, this is what's wrong, what do you think," regardless of where "this" might be.

So, when the massage ended and the masseurs has left, I hopped up off the table to go put my clothes back on.

"How is it, woman," Jessica asked from her table as she watched me, "that you don't have a spec of cellulite on you?"

I turned to look at her, dumbfounded by her words. Every time I hop out of the shower and start drying off, I see my legs so much bigger than 10 years ago, and think, gah, I need to lose those 20 pounds I've gained in the last decade. I see the unbalanced curves of my waist, the increasing width of my hips, and the softness of my sides and think, do something now, before it's too late.

Yet, she sees none of this. She sees the sprinter's muscles in my legs that help me play ultimate. She sees the shoulders that through injury and healing have grown stronger. She sees the back that works its way through the various Velocity Sports workouts to become stronger, better balanced, more defined.

I laughed, and said it's there, the light's just flattering. "No," she insists, "I saw you there, and there isn't any."

We are our own worst critic. I'm the biggest dork when I'm out running, but I'm out running, aren't I? If I look like a dork, so what. Time to shut up the self-criticism. No one else is listening to it, why should I?