Up in Arms

It seems like every week has a feature body part that I have a hang-up about.  Last week it was thighs, the week before that it was belly (although that one recurs pretty frequently), and this week it appears to be arms.  

This makes little sense for two good reasons.  One, my weight has, if anything, inched downwards over the last week, so there's no way my arms should be any more padded than the week before, when I was largely oblivious to them.  Two, I have been doing yoga and working on strengthening exercises to sub for some of my cardio, so my upper arm strength is actually greatly improved right now, showing that increased sizage can probably be attributed more to muscle than flab.  Or at least that's what I'm trying to tell myself.  

But I still have that icky feeling that when I clap my arms down to my sides, they spread as wide as Texas.  This is a new one, I've never had arm self-consciousness before.  And I honestly can't blame the omni-tank-topped Michelle Obama.  I'm pretty sure this is a mind game of my own making.

I am still in the phase where I have to avoid mirrors as much as possible, to preserve the remaining shreds of my sanity.  I wait until after I shower to put my contacts in, so I can't catch any accidental glimpses of myself.  I've taken down all of the mirros, actually, except one neck-up one above my sink in the bathroom.  

It's not so much the looks, though, it's the feel.  Having your body change just feels weird, alien, like you're in someone else's clothes.  I've mentioned this frequently before, so this is probably just same ole same ole ranting.  See here for my past analysis of the psychology of body image vs body schema: "Does This Outfit Make My Schema Look Fat?"

I should be enjoying these arms, damnit.  They are much stronger than they used to be.  They can do real push-ups, they can carry more groceries, and they hauled luggage for my grandparents last weekend.  They can heave G. into the bathtub, they can steer my bicycle, they can move boxes full of books as I begin packing my stuff up to move at the end of the summer.  They can carry a water bucket for my friend's horse, they can dig in the campus community garden, and they can carry boxes of traps for a research project I'm helping out with.  They can do this nerdy party trick wherein I cock my arm back so that my elbow is next to my ear, balance a stack of quarters on my elbow, then snap my arm down and catch all of the coins before they hit the ground.  Pretty sexy, let me tell you, still haven't figured out why THAT one hasn't turned out to be the Man Magnet that it deserves to be.

Remember this guy?  When I think about him, it's hard for me not to feel like an incredible [insert favorite expletive here] for griping about anything about my arms.  I guess that's what makes EDs frustrating, though, it's like you're a rational core locked inside an irrational box within your mind, trying to break out but still having that straight-jacket on your thoughts.