So, it’s Two Weeks Until Disney World.
(I’M COMING HOME, DOLE WHIP.)
Two Weeks Until Disney World and I have decided to cease my internal bargaining:
Okay, Dani, the trip is in two months, so it’s time to GET CUTE.
Okay, Daniel, you’ve still got three weeks, time to DO SOME CRUNCHES.
YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME YOU DISASTER.
And I am feeling defiant and tired this week, so FUCK YOU VOICE.
Because what I mean, in my internalized bullshit way, when I try to excite myself about Getting Cute is, “Hey, lose weight.”
We talk about “beach bodies” and “getting cute for summertime,” and, like, I respect your personal journey, but also… you already deserve the beach? In this larger, softer body I am currently inhabiting, I am allowed to spend money on shorts that actually fit me and I am allowed to eat while I am wandering around Epcot. It is the fucking Flower & Garden Festival and I have MANY BOOTHS TO VISIT.
It’s Two Weeks until I get to drive to Orlando with one of my best friends and share a hotel room with them and order too many Mai Tais from the pool bar. I already have the perfect body for that. I already have a body equipped to scream too loudly on Dinosaur, for starters.
I feel a shift within me this week and I hope it is no fleeting thing. I hope this is a sign that I have been doing the work I need to be doing and that it is paying off. That I am headed, not to the end, maybe not even to a new beginning… but towards what my therapist calls a Life Worth Living. I think I am finally strolling towards coffee and friendliness and sharks and art and friendship and Mai Tais from the pool bar.
And it sounds good. It sounds enough. And so I must challenge myself to be enough to exist within that daydream.
The new size of my gay little shorts does not dictate how much happiness I am allowed to experience. The swell of my stomach should not stop me from licking churro dust from my fingertips at Animal Kingdom.
I am building, I am growing. My body is for beaches and for mountains and for swamps and tundras and, yes, for pounding across hot Florida asphalt in pursuit of the queue for Rock n’ Rollercoaster.
Two weeks. I do not have to do anything else.