I’ve always considered myself to have a reasonable relationship with my body, and yet, paradoxically, my body is something I think about often. I never hated my body, but I never loved it either. It was merely a vessel.
As a teenager I was of course aware that my skinnier friends got the bulk of attention from guys. But that didn’t bother me; it was somehow obvious that those boys weren’t worthy of my time. In my twenties, working in the fashion industry, I knew if I was thinner I would have more wardrobe options, and that was appealing. But not as much as French fries and cask wine.
I just kind of… was. I lived without any sense of pride or the envy of others. And yet no self-loathing or angst either.
Actually, I did have one moment of body love; I distinctly remember making a comment to someone that I thought I had really good boobs and it would be just my luck to lose them. So when I was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 26, one of my first thoughts was “typical”. Upon telling
