Warning: naughty language ahead!

I’m coming out with my cellulite-covered bottom half. In my bedroom, at the beach and at yoga class.

Yup, it’s happening.

I’m tired of hiding my cellulite from myself and others. I’ve got it and have since I was 12. Three plus decades later it’s probably not going anywhere. I think it’s safe to admit that.

It would be a lie to say, “I love my sweet adorable and dimply thighs.” I aspire to that level of self-love. I’m not there.

I feel self-conscious when my thigh skin shows or really any skin above the shins.

It looks like the blender broke in the middle of making mashed potatoes and someone super glued the remains to my ass and legs.

Do I love the look?

I do not.

But I’m tired of avoiding swimming, walking in shorts, biking or paddle boarding. So make peace with the texture I must. Hey, even cranberry sauce isn’t always all smooth and shiny unless you get it sliding out of the can. Sometimes the homemade kind is messier and filled with chunks and peel—even if it’s organic.

Sometimes, that’s just life—the price of being real.

My dimples can’t be exfoliated, tanned or even weight-lifted off.

I’ve tried.

I’ve tried oregano oil and deep wood brushing and using a vibrator to massage my skin. There have been rollers and apple cider vinegar water and weight lifting.

From the waist up I can tone with yoga and resistance training but from the waist down, not so much. My thighs and buttocks say, “We do as we wish and nothing you can do can change us.”

Not yoga or exercise or clean eating makes a dent in the dents. Did I mention squats or burpees? Nothing. And I f’n hate those.

So, summer comes with capris and shorts and bathing suits. What’s a human to do?

Swim, do yoga and work on worrying less—even if cellulite shows.

I’m lucky to have the good use of both legs. That’s not nothing.

My kid will still be seen at the beach with me. Bonus number two.

And to not walk my puppy on the sand or run and play because of jiggle or appearances? Well that’s kind of ludicrous and superficial.

To cellulite I wave the white flag and say, you are one persistent mother-fucker. I can’t beat you back or out of my skin but I can stop hiding you and pretending you don’t exist. You don’t steal joy from my thundering ass and thighs.

It’s time to shed nylons and leggings worn with short skirts in all four seasons.

These imperfections are all mine. I own them and even if I never love them I can accept them.

Who am I proving what to by avoiding kayaking or standing in shorts?

I’ve started to leave the sweatshirt in the car rather than wrap it around my waist before and after yoga.

I’m working toward caring less what others think—myself included. Honestly, I hate that I care at all but I do.

I’m not the only human with cellulite, though you wouldn’t know that from TV, magazines or movies. Maybe if we all revealed more we’d all be more relieved.

We don’t all have cellulite but we all have something we don’t love about ourselves. Scars. Insecurities. Veins. Ripples. Dimples. Age spots. Wrinkles. Stretch spots. Flab. We can focus more on how our parts work rather than how they look.

We can join together in our un-photo-shopped glory and beauty as varied shaped bodies who are athletes, swimmers, yogis and adventurers.

We deserve a downward dog as much as a tight ass.

We should be able to walk around in public wearing basically pajamas just like others.

We need to stay cool in 100% humidity and let some skin show too even if we’re not runway models.

We can get ahead of the next movement. Dove will come out with a “get caught in cellulite” commercial or someone will start Kiss My Cellulite Covered Ass Indie Go Go campaign. I’ll fund it right along with Elephant Books.

Maybe Pink or Beyonce will come out with a Sexy Cellulite song.

Until that time, “I’m Cissy and I have a whole bunch of f’n cellulite. Always have. Always will. You are not alone.”

Cellulite is below skin deep. Cellulite is forever.

I’m pretty sure I can find a pocket in my cellulite-covered ass without even wearing pants.

And still, I’m not wearing spanx under yoga pants or using duct tape to smooth or tighten my skin.

I’m done with baggy everything and worrying if my backside is sliding down my backslide. No worrying; it is.

It’s summer. I like kayaking and being able to move my legs.

Period.

If these legs want to kick it up in a yoga class outside I’m going to have to let them.

Maybe, if I practice long, hard and regularly enough I’ll get to the point when I can kiss my own cellulite-covered ass.

And then fall down laughing.

Relephant:

The Incredibly Beautiful Bodies of Mothers. {Nudity}

Working with what’s inside, not just outside: 

~

Author: Cissy White

Editor: Caroline Beaton

Photo: Flickr