mirror mirror on the wall, who's the silliest of them all?

Back in July I started a little experiment.

I started a body journal. In a little, round, wire-bound notebook with a half moon on the cover, I was allowed to write anything I wanted about my body. The catch was - I could only write it there.

I have a habit I indulge in quite frequently - reading my really old paper journals. And flipping back through my life at 16, 19, 21, 23, I noticed that not a single day went by that I didn't have something nasty to say about myself. I'm so fat. I'm so gross. How did I get so disgusting? No wonder boy x doesn't like me.

And there it all was, written down forever. Every summer a vow to come back to school thinner. Every December a new resolution to lose weight.

And it disgusted me. Because how much of my life have I wasted hating myself? And it goes beyond wanting to work out, wanting to eat right. Those are great things. Good things. It goes to the crux of it. How I can't see myself the way I am.

I winced when I read the 16-year-old me dreaming about how great her life would be if she was only thinner. And that's the kicker - I was thin. I was gorgeous. But I had a real body at 16. I wasn't a giant collarbone with no boobs, like most early high schoolers.

And then it made me realize. Wait a minute - will I be thinking the same thing in 5 years when the 30-year-old Hannah reads today's journal entry? Will she want to reach out and strangle me and tell me I should just be happy? Because at 30 I'll wish I looked like I was 25?

Then it hit me. Why can't I just do that now? Why can't I just purge myself of these nasty thoughts? But since I knew I'd never be able to do it entirely, I just corralled them. I put them down in my body journal. I wrote about my arms, my thighs, the way I hate all my clothes, how much I worked out, what I ate. And after a while, it just got so tedious. And very trite. It became so very Lifetime Original.

So I quit. I haven't written in my body journal for months. And when I pulled it out the other day and flipped through it, it all seemed so pointless. No good came from any of that negativity. Nothing changed in my life.

But I still do it. I still harp on the way I look. Only instead of writing it down, I keep it inside. (Or, I uh, talk about it here.)

And I'm not really sure what's better. I'm in awe of journals like Poundy, who so boldly go where I never could.

Maybe I should start writing about it again. But with perspective this time. With goals and self love, not loathing.

And I have wonderful people in my life who love the way I look. Who tell me all the time what they love about me physically. What they see that my eyes can't.

And is it about that, or is it about really losing weight? I'm not even sure if that's what I want. I just want to be able to look in the mirror and see what's really there. Not what I imagine. Not what I wish.

I want to look at myself. At her. At Hannah. At the tall blonde in the mirror, and I want to tell her - You know what, babe? You're not bad.

Today's Stupid Question

Can men fake it? Should they?

I was let in on a little secret recently. Men can fake it, and they do. I guess I just never assume they'd need to. But evidently, there are times when they just want it to be over as well. The whole faking it thing is beyond me anyway. Not that I, you know, always do or anything, but I guess I've always felt comfortable enough with my partners to know they're okay if I don't, and I'm okay if I don't, and I'd rather just say We need to stop, than basically lie. So, yeah, men fake it. I think we all know the answer to "should they?" Please. When is lying to someone, especially in bed, ever, ever okay?

What do y'all think?