Body Talk

I Don’t Want Kids Because I Don’t Like Them – But That Doesn’t Make Me An Asshole

/ Courtney / Leave a comment

I know, I know. You’re never supposed to actually say you don’t like kids. I mean, we were ALL kids at one point – how can you say you don’t like them?? I don’t know, but it seems to roll off my tongue pretty easily.

When you don’t want children, you learn quickly that there is a list of reasons that are relatively “acceptable” to most people when you choose to actually justify your decision with a reason, should someone ask (and they will).

I don’t want to pass on the genetic health issues that both sides would be contributing to.

I don’t want to bring a child into a world as fucked up as ours is right now.

I prefer a lifestyle where you can spend money on travel and custom furniture instead of diapers and daycare.

I have never felt any type of maternal instinct and feel like you shouldn’t really have kids unless you KNOW you really want them.

These are all reasons most people digest fairly easily. They can understand them. That said, many will still try to debate you on them and tell you that you’ll change your mind, or the joy of being a parent overrides the fact they can’t remember the last time they slept in, or peed alone, or haven’t had a spa day in 15 years. But that’s why they’re OK with these particular reasons – they feel like they might be able to talk you out of them or that you’ll “change your mind.”

When you tell someone you don’t want kids because you don’t LIKE kids, things go a little sideways.

I have been totally spoiled though because my friends and family are actually awesome, and not super intrusive jerks who really push on stuff like that (although I know that happens A LOT). So I don’t really get challenged about not wanting them, because this conversation has happened many times already (basically since I was 15) and everyone who loves me and thinks I’m awesome already knows I’m not kid-friendly. They know that babysitting duty = any other friend. Counting on someone to take their teenager to Planned Parenthood and teaching them how to master the perfect cat eye and not take shit from boys = Auntie Courtney.

But recently, I was made to feel REALLY uncomfortable by a medical professional who looked at me like I was a troll who ripped the heads off of puppies when I told him in no uncertain terms I was on birth control to prevent pregnancy. Forever. Because I never want kids. Ever. Because I don’t like them or want them.

It was my second appointment with this doctor (a sleep specialist mind you, and not my actual primary care doctor), and the topic of kids had already come up in the context of genetic issues, which is when I made it clear that wouldn’t be a problem for me. When the topic of birth control came up again later, he advised me I needed to stop taking it not only because it is “part of why you’re fat” but because a different medication I had been prescribed was going to regulate my cycle, so I “didn’t need birth control for that anymore.”

OK. 1. I’m not on birth control just to regulate my cycle you clueless buffoon. And 2. I know from my ACTUAL PRIMARY CARE DOCTOR that this other medication is actually also used to treat infertility because it helps women get pregnant so much easier. I only agreed to take it when she promised me it wouldn’t “cancel out” my birth control.

Back to the idiot doctor.  I calmly informed him that I am taking birth control to actually PREVENT PREGNANCY and that it is not an option for me to stop. To which this cartoon character of a man said to me, “You’re only 32. You don’t really mean that. You’ll change your mind and decide you really want kids.” And then stared at me, like he was waiting for me to confess that he was right, and that I do in fact harbor a secret desire to procreate. Um, what? Like, what the what? What the actual fuck did you just say to me???

I should pause for a minute to mention I live in California, in SILICON VALLEY, the most progressive place in the world. It’s not like this was some backwoods doctor in the Bible Belt (not that it would have been acceptable there either).

So when I lost my patience and explained that no, stopping birth control would never happen because I don’t like kids and have literally never experienced an ounce of desire for them…. that’s when it happened. That’s when the whole ripping heads off puppies face came in.

For the record, I do not rip the heads off of puppies. Ice does not run through my veins. Kids just aren’t my jam. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE, with all my heart, my best friends’ kids. They get a pass. They’re cool as shit because the people I love most in the world made them. I love to hold my friends’ kids (if they’re not covered in goo or screaming) and I will spoil the shit out of them because they are my family by proxy. And even THEM I don’t really want to spend an entire day with. A few hours is more than enough for Auntie Courtney. Get a sitter and call me when you want to hit up a wine bar or grab some sushi.

It sounds harsh, but it’s really not. I have built a life for myself that purposely does not include children. And I like it that way. A lot.

I do make exceptions for kids of the people I love the most, but if someone asked me and Gil to babysit a kid for them, it would be all him. His coach instincts are strong. I see it when he’s hanging out with his nephew – that’s his territory. He never wants kids either, but he actually enjoys hanging out with them. I just don’t.  I mean, I can tolerate it. I am a functioning human being who understands the rules of society. But I don’t ENJOY it. And this does not make me a heartless monster.

And in general, I am lucky enough to be surrounded by intelligent people who understand all of this, so it is usually a non-issue for me. I am in the best relationship I could ever imagine with the man of my dreams and we’re building a life we love. The people who love us are thrilled by that and support our crazy dreams (even when it involves moving hundreds of miles away). So it catches me off guard when someone feels they have the right to speak to me that way and I just had to talk about it with you guys. Because I also realize not everyone has friends and family who are as supportive as mine, and it never hurts to be reminded that liking kids is not a prerequisite to being a good person.

Also, that doctor is FIRED. I saw a new female sleep doctor today who kindly decided to stay the eff out of my uterus.

So. Much. Rage.

/ Courtney / Leave a comment

I hate when people make me be mean. I would rather be nice. I have worked in sales and customer service for years… I know you catch more flies with honey, or whatever that ridiculous analogy is.

However, I have recently been exposed to the 7th circle of hell otherwise known as Mazda, and the experience has required me to go into full bitch mode more times than I care to count just to advocate for myself and prevent arrogant pricks from completely jerking me around. When a company so grossly mistreats a customer who has literally just spent $30,000+ and that customer is ME, I find myself getting very worked up over it.

So much so in fact, that I recently landed in the ER with unbearable abdominal pain, only to be told to that it was due partly to an ovarian cyst, and partly due to other stress-induced medical issues. Thanks Mazda, I’ll be sure to forward my ER bill to you.

I am hopefully coming to the end of my almost 2 month battle with Mazda at this point, and I think we are going to reach an outcome I’m comfortable with. If for no other reason, than that they have literally worn me out and I just want to be done. I can’t afford to spend hours of my life every week fighting these battles anymore – I already have a full-time job.

But now what I’m finding is that as a result of this nightmare with Mazda, along with all the personal health issues I’ve had going on lately, I am becoming more and more filled with rage.

This is a total 180 from the other night, when Mazda called to basically tell me to fuck off, that they weren’t going to try to work with me to replace my brand new car, and were now claiming zero responsibility for the issue. That was the night I had to have Gil drive me to one of my many doctor’s offices for a sleep study, so I could be observed like a zoo animal all night. As if I wasn’t stressed enough about that, getting the call from Mazda pushed me over the edge, and I literally sobbed the whole drive over there.

That was 2 days ago though. Today… today I am filled with violent anger.

Not only at Mazda, but at the ER who discharged me with papers telling me I had been diagnosed with hepatitis, when THEY HADN’T EVEN RUN A HEPATITIS PANEL. (For the record, I do not have hepatitis – my primary care doctor ordered the panel herself when I showed her that, and everything came back negative.)

Rage at the ultrasound tech who was checking for the pancreatic lesion the ER thought they saw, who thought it would be helpful to tell me that the pancreas is the one organ that once they do realize something is wrong with it, it’s already too advanced to do much about it. (I do not, in fact, have any pancreatic lesions.)

Rage towards one of the other doctors I saw who basically said, yeah, I don’t know what it could be, you’ll probably just have to learn to deal with the pain, and by the way, I know you didn’t ask me and I’m not your regular doctor, but I think you should really have weight loss surgery.

That day, tears. Today, in hindsight, rage. So much rage.

I suppose I’d rather be full of piss and vinegar than sorrow, but honestly I don’t think either one really suits me all that well. I find myself wanting to snap at everyone, when I know damn well that’s not fair. Although the reality is that life isn’t fair, as the universe has so kindly reminded me time and time again over the last couple months.

So I find myself at what I wonder may be a crossroads… I feel like it would be so easy to completely cross over into just becoming an angry person. Adopting that as part of my regular personality. Angry at the world, and angry at all the idiots who have done me wrong. I would be justified I think.

But I would also become someone I don’t think I would like very much. I love that I can get in peoples’ faces when I need to, that I don’t back down from a challenge, and that I always make sure my voice is heard, but I don’t want to become someone who is in that kind of battle mode all the time, looking for a fight.

I need to find a way to let this all go… and maybe just sharing it with you guys is what’s going to let me do that. Well, that and finally putting this mess with Mazda behind me, which is hopefully happening very soon.

The Secret Life of Couples

/ Courtney / Leave a comment

If I read one more of these lists of things you’re not “allowed” to do in front of your significant other, my head is going to explode. Or my insides, if I follow the ridiculous advice they offer, since then apparently I’d never be able to fart ever again. If you have never farted or peed in front of your live-in significant other, I seriously question your relationship. Or perhaps just your ability to tell the truth. Because, COME ON, there is no escaping certain realities.

Recently, I have been seeing more and more of these ridiculous “listicles” floating around titled things like “15 Things You Should NEVER Do In Front Of Your Boyfriend” or  “Things Married Couples Won’t Do In Front Of Each Other – Even After Decades” or “10 Gross Things Not To Do In Front Of Your Boyfriend.”

Let’s forget for a moment what bullshit it is that they all seem to be aimed at WOMEN, basically teaching/threatening them that they can’t keep a partner if they don’t present an attractive enough air of mystery. Let’s try to forget that thread of sexism for now, and actually just look at what terrible expectations they’re creating for both men and women.

These lists are often disguised as a guide in how to “be respectful” to your partner, or the importance of “keeping romance alive” but that’s total crap. I would be willing to bet they are written by mostly single people, or people whose average relationship lifespan is about 3-6 months. Because anyone who has been in a long term relationship and actually lived with that person will have run into basically all of these taboos, and probably blown by them without even thinking about it. So why is no one writing about THAT?

I have decided (and I’m sure Gil is gonna be totally thrilled about this) that I’m going to debunk some of these common “never ever” relationship commandments with examples from my real-life, awesome as shit, cohabitation situation with the man of my dreams. Good thing he doesn’t embarrass easily. Buckle up guys, here we go.

Thou shalt never, ever, ever, ever, under any circumstances poop in front of your significant other.  

I am going to call bullshit on this, pun definitely intended. I mean, I don’t actually want to see Gil poop, and when he forgets to light a match and I’m not expecting it, our bathroom can make my eyes water. But let’s be real – we live in a small condo with ONE bathroom. If he’s indulging in what I call one of his “luxury poops” and is taking foreverrrr, I will for sure pop in to grab whatever it is I need. If I’m sitting there minding my own business and he really needs his contacts, he’ll come in and snag them. News flash: we still want to have sex with each other. Like, a lot. We understand what happens in there and that we are humans with human bodily functions.

Tonight, he even gifted me with one more example. I hadn’t been feeling hot today and Gil knew it. He was in our room with his headphones on playing video games. As I walked through our room to the bathroom, I made a comment to him about the leftovers from dinner. I thought he caught the whole thing and I went about my business, closing the bathroom door (because I suppose we should have SOME boundaries). A full 5 or 10 minutes later, Gil bursts in without even knocking to check on me, literally scaring the shit out of me. As he was playing his game, he started thinking that maybe he hadn’t caught the tail end of what I was saying and that I was sick and needed immediate assistance so he decided to just barge in and make sure I wasn’t dying. Not sure I completely follow the logic, but I’m pretty sure it’s sweet. I think.

Thou shalt never fart or belch in front of each other.

I mean, seriously?? So if you live in a small space with that person, you are supposed to actually put on shoes, and pants, and a bra, and go outside to fart? That fart or belch is going to damage your fragile little relationship so much that you have to go on a field trip to relieve yourself? Sorry pumpkin, you’re not gonna make it to forever.

Gil told me once about how when we were first dating, he would actively hold in his farts, to the point that it was really uncomfortable for him, and when he would finally get in his car to leave, he would just unleash hell on that poor upholstery.  When I asked him when he felt comfortable enough to start letting them rip (because honestly, I can’t remember a time when he didn’t) he said it was immediately after we starting sleeping together. Once we’d gotten that intimate, all bets were off. And that was within the first couple weeks of knowing each other (sorry Mom) so I can’t imagine how he could have continued much longer without doing serious medical damage.

At this point, we both fart freely in front of each other. And yet, we still want to see each other naked and go down on each other. How crazy. I actually have pretty strong feelings about this whole farting in front of your significant other thing… you can read my whole theory on it here.

Thou shalt ever speak of the shame that is menstruation. Or cramps. Or yeast infections.

Obviously this one is aimed directly at the ladies, and the logic behind it (usually from female writers, which bums me out) is that it’s gross, and no man wants to hear about it. That “place” is supposed to be a special, wonderful playground for him and if you tarnish it with the idea you might be a human woman with human woman issues, it’s not going to be as appealing to him. If that’s your approach to vaginas, you should just buy a fleshlight or save up for one of those real dolls, and call it a day. Real lady vaginas have things going on up in there. And if I’m miserable and grumpy because I’m expelling part of my uterus in a bloody mess, or have a yeast infection that won’t quit, then yeah, I’m going to tell Gil. Because then he’ll probably make me tea and ask if I need ibuprofen, cuz he’s awesome. Because healthy couples support each other.

tampons

As a side note, I don’t understand how you can possibly have a fun, adventurous sex life if you think this way, because in order to try new things you really do need to completely trust your partner and be OK with all the different bodily functions that can happen. And guys? You really need to get over it if you aren’t comfortable listening to any of this. Because first of all, you should be a caring human being who wants to help take care of the person you love and help make her more comfortable if possible. And second of all, the more you understand about a woman’s body, the more able you will be to actually please that woman, and I don’t know about the rest of you, but orgasms are a pretty important part of my relationship.

 Thou shalt never, ever, allow your partner to see you removing any of your unsightly body hair. Do that shit in private.

Another one that is targeting women in particular. On not one of these lists have I seen a “never ever” commandment about men shaving their face. But you gotta wax your upper lip, or pluck your eyebrows, or shave your bikini line? Lock the door and hide the evidence after you’re done. He wants to enjoy the finished product, but wants no part in understanding what went into it. Kind of like eating hot dogs.

OK, story time. Once upon a time, early on in our relationship, Gil noticed the hairs on my chin (thanks for that, PCOS). I usually wax or pluck them, but it’s not really at the very top of my priority list. He started referring to them as my “little beard” – lucky for him I have a sense of humor. So when he asks where I’m going as I head out the door to the salon, I tell him I’m off to wax my eyebrows and beard. Now he pretends to be sad when it’s gone, staring wistfully at my newly smooth  chin. It’s entertaining for both of us.

And another thing… I would not hesitate to trim my lady garden in front of him either. He’s intimately familiar with the area, so I don’t see how actually seeing it being trimmed could even be a blip on the radar.

Thou shalt never bring up past sexual partners or, even worse, discuss your…. number.

Oh for fuck sake. Really? Are we that insecure? Are you not being an adult and having a conversation about your sexual history and STD screening before you hop in bed together? Gil and I know about each others past – it was never awkward, or even one specific conversation that I can recall. I know which of his exes he’s still friends with, and he knows I whored it up in college after my brother died. We talked STD’s on our third date. Jealousy is just not a part of the equation, and there is no need to try to protect anyone’s feelings. It’s life. It’s what made me who I am, and what made Gil who he is. Why wouldn’t we share that with each other?

The reality is, laying yourself out raw and vulnerable to another person is one of the scariest, most exhilarating experiences a person can have. To be completely, unapologetically yourself in front of the person you love, and to have them embrace all of you (flaws included), is a rare gift. Gil and I dropped our bottom lines pretty quick – we talked religion and kids during our first lunch, which I wasn’t even sure was a date. By our official first date (which turned into a whole weekend btw) we had shared even more.

So what are a couple of burps or period cramps between people so close to one another? Why would we care about that kind of trivial shit? I care that he’d protect me against anything, and that he sees the beauty in me even when I don’t. I care that we support each other in our life decisions and know we can count on each other no matter what. Opening the door while he’s pooping to grab my phone doesn’t change any of that.

And for any of the people writing those articles who actually DO believe in what they’re writing, I feel sorry for them. Because putting up those ridiculous walls and expectations means you’re spending more time trying to hide who you are, instead of actually focusing on sharing yourself with your partner and just living. I mean, relationships are hard – you better have a partner who is all in. And life is too short to walk outside every time you need to fart. Seriously.

I Love You, I’m Proud of You… Now Shut Up

/ Courtney / Leave a comment

I am fat. I have been, to varying degrees, for a significant period of my adult life. I have always struggled with my weight, so it’s never far from my mind.

scale

In turn, I struggle with my self-image quite a bit as well. I place way too much emphasis on the correlation between size and happiness. That’s not to say I don’t need to lose weight to be happier – at this point, I certainly do. I’ve had multiple ankle surgeries and had limited mobility for the last couple years, so being more active and losing some of the weight I’ve gained is important to me, for my own personal happiness.

I’ll never be a size 6, and that’s fine. I don’t need to be. But I do need to be healthier and more active to start really feeling like me again, regardless of the number on the scale. In the meantime though, I need to really work on loving myself in spite of the fact that I’m not where I want to be right now.

One of the people who has been most instrumental in helping me do this is Gil. He is the most supportive partner I could ever ask for. He loves me no matter what, and he tells me how beautiful I am every single day, and how attracted he is to me. He tells me and shows me in a million ways how much he appreciates everything about me, including my body.

He is also very much supportive of me wanting to make changes, which is another point in the “wonderful boyfriend” column. He himself has made a ton of positive changes in the last year and a half. He cut out regular soda, fast food, most sugar, and he got a job as a coach working with kids, so he is literally active all day long. And recently he has even taken up running and is getting even more serious about getting in shape. He’s lost over 40 pounds and counting. It’s incredible.

And I hate it. I mean, I love him and I’m proud of him, and it’s amazing. But I HATE IT.

I say that with as much love in my heart as possible. But we are both people who have struggled with our weight over the years, and for him to be making such drastic progress when I’m not is extremely challenging. Don’t get me wrong, I AM proud of him. But when he comes into the living room and complains that there is no way he’ll be able to eat all of his allotted calories on MyFitnessPal for the day, or how he lost another 3 pounds, I want to stab him in the eye with a fork. And then use that fork to finish a giant bowl of pasta.

My mom works for Weight Watchers and she sees this all the time. Couples come in together, and almost immediately the man starts losing weight faster than the woman (because biology SUCKS), and she inevitably gets frustrated. It’s one of the biggest challenges my mom sees her members having, when their spouse is losing and they aren’t.

When Gil and I started dating, we went the way of many couples. Lots of dinners out, weekend trips, and nights ordering in, not watching what we were eating at all. If he had a third piece of pizza, so did I. If he was going to sit and each chips and salsa, so was I.  And surprise, surprise, I gained at least 20 or 30 pounds in the first year of our relationship. Him? Probably none.

I’m not blaming him by any means. I did it to myself – it’s easy to give yourself so much leeway in the beginning of a relationship, and most of the women I know have fallen into this trap at one time or another. And if you struggle with weight and your relationship with food the way I do, it can become this weird free pass to do all the things you know are going to take you to the dark side. The side where nothing in your closet fits even though you JUST caved in and bought things a size up to get you through last season.

My mom always tells me how she would be struggling to diet and lose weight when she was dating my dad, and he would just announce one day that he planned to lose 10 pounds that week. AND HE WOULD. How he lived to father 2 children, I’m not sure.

When Gil needed to make some changes to his diet for medical reasons, I was all over it and helped get us stocked up on my healthy go-to’s. Gil wasn’t even trying to lose weight that first year – it just happened. I have never, in my entire life, known a woman who just “accidentally” lost weight.

And now that he’s actually actively working on getting in shape and really trying to watch his diet more, I can only imagine how successful he will be. And even if it makes me a horrible person for saying it, that’s really hard for me.

I have gone through so many attempts to “get started” on my fitness goals over the years, whether it was with MyFitnessPal or Weight Watchers, or whatever, but it is a daily struggle for me and it’s very slow going. There are a million reasons why, but none of that really matters. All that matters is that I am struggling to make the changes I so desperately want to make, and the opposite is true for my partner.

And I am completely terrified of being the fat girlfriend with a fit boyfriend.

It was different when we were both big – it was just part of our charm as a couple. Big people, big personalities. But now I feel this pressure that if I don’t lose a bunch of weight with him, that I’m failing in some way. That people will judge. That he might decide he wants someone who can keep up with him.

It’s a terrible feeling, but one I’m going to have to come to terms with. Because I want him to share his successes with me. When he is excited about losing another 5 pounds, I want him to feel like he can celebrate that with me. I don’t want to be threatened by his progress. But today, I still am. There is still a little part of me that can’t stand hearing how well he is doing, when I am still struggling to get on track. But that’s OK – I am giving myself permission to feel that way.

Because I’ll get there. Whether or not I actually lose as much weight as he does is not the point. I’ll get to a point where I can fully accept myself. Maybe that involves losing a bunch of weight, and maybe it doesn’t. All I know is that I want us to be able to fully support each other no matter what. And even if I get struck with the occasional urge to hurl heavy objects at his head when he announces that none of his pants fit anymore, or that he COULDN’T POSSIBLY have one more bite as I’m cleaning my plate… well, I’m only human.

I’m A Ball Woman

/ Courtney / Leave a comment

I met up with 2 of my favorite people last week for a girls’ night. Six years ago, this would have involved low cut tops, tight pants, boozy nights out, and battle cries of “Let’s get slutty!!” reverberating off the walls. Now, it means we get together and order take-out, look at pictures of Melanie’s new baby, and Natasha turns into Martha Stewart and bakes decadent desserts. Like Bob Dylan said, the times they are a-changin’.

One thing that never changes though – the conversation always turns to sex. It seems inevitable when the 3 of us get together that we wind up in detailed conversation about the craziest shit. And we wouldn’t want it any other way. Thank god Melanie isn’t one of those people who can only talk about her baby, and our conversations haven’t been toned down in any way. (Neither has she for that matter, and for that we are all grateful.)

But I digress – we were talking about sex.

Screw the stereotype that men talk about sex more than women or the antiquated idea of “locker room talk” – most of the women I know love to talk about their sex lives more than any of the men I know. And I have news for you, guys – we share detailed information with each other. Detailed. Information. We’re in the trust tree, and if you can’t talk to your best girlfriends about nipple clamps or sex-induced UTI’s  or what went wrong the last time you attempted anal, who CAN you talk to?

So I was asking about Melanie’s sex life after the baby and the conversation turned to our partners’ specific preferences. Melanie has never been lacking in the boob department, but now that she’s breastfeeding her cups runneth over. Like, a lot. They’re huge. And she was saying how her husband has always been “a boob man” and now that she puts Pamela Anderson to shame, he’s enjoying them even more. That’s his “thing” – the visual of her tits just does it for him.

This of course led into me sharing that it’s the reverse in my house. Gil appreciates my G cups, sure. They never want for attention. But he is “an ass man” through and through. He can’t get enough of my butt. And can I just say, there is plenty of it to go around. But for him, that’s the visual. That’s the thing that really revs his engine. I would even tell you that if I could get a silicone replica of my butt made for him to snuggle with (or whatever) when I’m gone, he would be all over it, pun definitely intended.

big butt apple

It got me thinking though, it’s so common for us women to categorize our male partners as either “ass men” or “boob men” because so many of them really have a distinct hot button, but there is no equivalent the other way around.

It’s not like Gil is sitting around with his friends saying, “Yeah man, Courtney appreciates my dick but she really can’t get enough of my balls. She’s totally a ball woman.”

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I AM a ball woman. But I’m also an ass woman, a lip woman, a tongue woman, a strong hands woman and a deep brown eyes woman. There is not one aspect of him that turns me on above everything else. It’s all a package deal.

When Natasha or Melanie are talking about their hottest sexual encounters, they’re not telling me things like, “Oh, I was in heaven with his balls just bouncing above my face. I almost came just looking at them.” I mean, good on ya if that’s what does it for you; whatever gets you to the big O is a win and not something I would judge – trust tree, remember? And the sight of our men does certainly turn us on. But I don’t think it’s the same for us in a visual sense when it comes to one specific body part, which is really interesting to me.

I know it’s different for every person and every couple, but it’s the term, “He’s a _____ man” that has become such common vernacular in our society. When Melanie tells me her husband is a boob man, I don’t bat an eye and I immediately understand what she’s talking about. If her husband turned to one of his friends and commented that she was totally a scrotum woman, I think he’d definitely get some very confused looks and a thorough grilling.

Some would definitely argue that it’s a sign of how much women are objectified and looked at as “things”, while the same is not really true of men. And I suppose I would agree with that to a certain extent. But for me, at the end of the day it is so nice to have a partner who is so vocally and physically expressive of his appreciation for my body, I don’t mind it one bit. I guess I don’t find that kind of objectification to be a problem if it’s coming from the person I love. Quite the opposite actually – I revel in it.

I’m fortunate enough to have a partner who is constantly telling me how beautiful I am, and how much he loves my body. One who walks into the kitchen just to grab my ass, or try to slide down my yoga pants if he can get away with it (he totally can). As someone who has really struggled with my weight over the last few years and who is still at odds with my own body and self-acceptance, I could not ask for anything more.

So maybe I should be objectifying HIM a little more, and start commenting more on how good his butt looks in his pants, or reaching over and giving his balls a little squeeze when no one’s watching and reminding him how much they drive me wild. If it’s as much of a confidence boost for him as it is for me, then shame on me for not doing more of it sooner.

I feel an experiment coming on…