Sorry I’m So

 
Ugly.
Fat.
Bald.
My teeth aren’t perfectly white, they’re an off white, and nothing I do gets them super white. Hell no, I’m not competing with the tissue test. If my teeth were meant to look like heavily bleached wood pulp, they’d be heavily bleached wood pulp. Tissue test. Jesus. Fuck you, Crest 3D. Also, there’s a little bit of plaque on my bottom teeth that simply WILL NOT GO AWAY. I can’t afford dental cleanings, and I brush my teeth every day, being careful to brush properly, but I can’t make the little bits on the bottom front two teeth come off. I’m afraid to scrub too hard, lest I cause damage.
Onward.
My face has little specks (not freckles, just dark skin spots, though harmless) on it, and my skin is a bit rough on my arms and legs. I’ve had this issue all of my life. So there will be no baby soft skin to caress on my arms. My hands are rough, because I have worked mostly manual labor jobs. I have developed callouses, and my knuckles stay red from an event years ago when I protected a friend. It involved a bully, locker, a fist, some intimidation (that worked), and a hell of a lot of pain once the danger had passed. I also have a big nose, and my jawline isn’t sharp, it’s very much curved and undefined. I have a double chin, though it used to be much larger, so there’s that.
Next.
My belly hangs over my waist, and is a little puffy in places, because I take injections for my diabetes, and you can only inject so many places so many times before things look a little noticeable.  I try to lose weight there, but even after losing 80 pounds over 4 years, my belly still looks as big as it ever did. I think it’s some kind of cruel joke in life, that belly fat is often the last fat to disappear. Also, no, crunches don’t remove belly fat. Anyone who tells you that you can do targeted exercise to remove fat in specific locations on your body is lying their ass off or trying to sell you something you don’t need. Fat storage does not work that way!
Nanananananananananaaa.
I don’t have a muscled chest. I’m certain I have muscles, I can even make my pecs bounce, but they’re less chiseled, and more Dairy Queen pecs. No matter how hard I work them, I can’t make the fat disappear (see?! targeted exercise is a lie!). I have been self conscious about those my entire life. Kids used to make fun of me when I was in middle school, and we had to change in the locker room. Nothing like kids pointing and laughing at your boy boobies. Those never really went away, goddammit.
*sigh* On.
My legs are thick, and strong. I was told when I was a kid I had swimmer’s legs. Unfortunately, the rest of my body decided I had a baker’s physique. I have no real butt. I mean, I do have one, and I think it’s mighty cute, but it doesn’t compare to most butts, probably. Oh, and TMI warning, but for those of you who have read my posts before I haven’t shied away from it, I only have an average sized penis. So if you’re hoping that my poor looks are made up in the size department, well, no. Sorry.
A little further down.
I have long toes. I mean that I can pick things up with my feet. I can turn pages of books, pick up, adjust, and put down rugs. I can pick up a towel, and toss it to my hands, again, using my feet. It’s easy for me to do. That may be a plus for some of you, I don’t know.
Anyway, the point in all of this is that if you like my personality, and are hoping for a golden body to match, I’m very sorry, it doesn’t exist. Oh, in my mind’s eye, I have a nice body, average but fit, and there’s no diabetes, or high blood pressure to worry about, no glasses to wear, no thinning hair on my head that makes it possible for you to see right through my scalp to the person behind me. I miss my hair, but I will never wear any kind of hair piece. I will accept the hair loss with dignity, if not with optimism.
Still, I hate my body, and I’ve always hated my body. I talk to so many nice people, and they’ll tell me I’m such a nice person, and that I seem very sweet, and I think that’s wonderful, but I also dread ever meeting them, because I’m afraid that if they were wanting anything romantic, one look at my misshapen, potato, doughy body would make them run away screaming, and they’d probably be right to do so, I wouldn’t even be mad.
There was a point to all of this, and that is I’m sorry that I’m ugly. I’m sorry I’m fat, that I’m bald, that no matter what I do to try and remedy it things stay about the same.
I’m going to go eat a strawberry ice cream now.