The craziest thing happened this week that most would find trivial or insignificant. To me, it was major. But first, a bit of context. Since I was in first grade, when I was introduced to bullies and began my journey to deep-rooted body image issues and self-loathing, I’ve avoided wearing shorts and tank tops. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a bare ankle, calf, wrist, or forearm from me. Summer days are hot and sticky when you wear a cardigan over everything and jeans for every occasion.
Fast forward to this week. It’s been a scorcher of a week here in the Chicagoland area, and to top it off, we have been sans air conditioning. Yep, our central air broke down and gave up on life just in time for impressively high temps to strike. Needless to say, we had to get it fixed, and there was no way I could wear a sweater.
Enter: AC repair man. I answered the door, wearing my spaghetti string tank, and contrary to what I had always imagined would happen, he didn’t throw up, he didn’t run away, he didn’t laugh, he didn’t scoff, nor did he seem to be effected in any way, shape, or form by the existence of my arm flab. The world kept turning, and I was the only one stressing my arms.
So… I have a long way to go, but we’ll see how it goes! Before you know it, maybe I’ll be taking my bare arms on the road for the public to see… you never know. It turns out, we all have the right and ability to bare arms.