Photo from here

I have to love it all.

I have to love it all.

The rolls of fat that I can feel busting out of the top of my pants, squishing on top of each other when I sit down.

My “is that a baby bump?” bloated belly that I can see when I walk by a mirror.

The extra flesh in my face that I see when I smile in photos.

The dramatic, Marilyn Monroe-esque, but slightly lower, beauty mark (mole?) that decided to appear on my face in the last five years.

Because if I don’t, who else will?

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