My Thighs Touch.

As a hussey in my mid-twenties, I take every opportunity that the universe throws at me. She shows me avenues that I joyfully skip along and hills that I trudge up. She presents to me people along the way that will take me by the hand either skipping forwards or holding back. One obstacle that has been in my way since the age of thirteen has been the perception of my physical body. But the past couple of years this obstacle was growing so big it dawned on me that my journey was at a standstill. If I didn’t knock down this wall then I would be stuck on the boring side.

The reason I am writing this, is with the hope that some other bad ass hussy will read it and it will help her realize she’s being ridiculous.

Through all the social media, magazines, fashion and lifestyle sites, we as the female community are often given this image that being super thin leads to a happy life of beaches and vacations. That if your thighs touch, you really can’t shop for all those cute outfits you find on Pinterest. Well, the day I accepted that my thighs would always touch was the day that mother f*ck!ing wall collapsed and I grew into my five foot nine inch frame. Why I finally karate kicked was due to a culmination of little break throughs.

The fittest I have been my entire life was last year and I still looked in the mirror every day pinching myself and criticizing my body. Six months later I was filming a movie in Italy and eating all the pizza I could get my paws on, obviously. When I got home, I wished I was as thin as I had been the few months back and then tormented myself for being so miserable and wasting it!

I was in a serious drama school and my teacher relentlessly told me to take the pressure off of myself otherwise I would never grow as an actor and artist, perfection is not an attainable goal. Outside of the classroom that pressure regarded my weight and figure because my theory was I could only be a successful actor if I was the perfect size, (inaccurate, by the way). I was studying and living in Paris when I fell for a poetic, smoking, red wine drinking french boy. Over a bottle of Bordeaux one night, I spoke out loud about my long time insecurity with my size. He reacted by setting down his wine and taking off his glasses. He took my hand in his, stared right into my eyes and spoke with his delicious French accent…