Guest Blogger: Getting In Touch With Myself. Literally.

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I come from a chubby family. Not fat, exactly, but I definitely belong to a blood line that provides a birthright of belly fat and double chins. Some of us fall on the fat side, some of us on the thin, but all of us have disproportionately large upper bodies that throw a shadow like a potato perched on two toothpicks. Sometimes the potato or the toothpicks are smaller, but we all pretty much look like we were made by Hasbro. Potato Head family, reprazent!

Where many of my friends are concave, I am convex. While prized is the hourglass, I got the fishbowl. When most little girls from my generation were dreaming of lives as Veruca Salt, all I saw when I looked in the mirror was Violet Beauregard after chewing the forbidden gum. Put me in a blue jumper and I was as good as dressed for Halloween. I am an apple in what sometimes feels like a world full of pears. What I’m saying is, it would have been easy for me to fall into the trap of disliking the shape that came with my DNA. And I did, for a while. But I found a savior in the form of earthquakes and fireworks, in the form of tingles and giggles, in the form of an orgasm.

In the time between realizing that my crop tops and Jordache jeans fit me differently than other girls and my first “Big O”, I was down. I felt unlovable. There was no one who looked like me on television or in movies. It was the 80′s and fitness was big. Everybody was wearing legwarmers and headbands even when not working out and Olivia Newton-John was getting physical in her music videos and turning fat slobs into Chippendale dancers in less than five minutes. I realized that I was the “before” in Weight Watchers commercials and thought I would always be. Cats? I like cats. Bring on the six cats and Lean Cuisine for one, baby. But one night, while babysitting at a neighbor’s house, I found myself glued to soft core porn while flipping through the channels after the kids had gone to bed. I knelt close to the television so as to have the sound low enough not to wake the kids. I resembled a worshipper as I bathed in the glow of sex. I felt funny in a place of which I was only vaguely aware because I had to wash it periodically when I showered. I touched down there and it was good. I touched a little bit more and it was better. Soon, I forgot to be careful, altogether, as waves of pure joy washed over me. It was as if each cell in my body had made itself known and I took note of and was filled with love for every one.

You know that Divinyls song “I Touch Myself”? The one where she sings to a lover “I forget myself, I want you to remind me”? Well, I do. I forget myself. I get busy, I get tired, I get down. I have bills to pay and kids to raise and flowers to arrange (I’m a florist) and posts to write. At any given moment I am late on at least two writing deadlines and dashing off apology emails to people I should have gotten back to weeks ago. I don’t even THINK about my body except to feed it, clothe it, and take it to the bathroom once in a while. When that happens I’ll notice that maybe I don’t iron the shirt I’m wearing before I leave the house. I’ll glance at the mirror and think “Meh, good enough.” Then, maybe I start leaving the house without makeup. I’ll take an even shorter peek in the mirror just to be sure I don’t have a screaming case of bedhead before heading out the door. Legs go unshaven. Hair goes unwashed. I start to fall apart a little. My seams start to show.

Then, like a whisper in my ear so faint that I almost instinctively know it, rather than hear it, something says “Touch Me”. I stop and listen, suddenly knowing that I’ve forgotten myself and my body is reminding me. And I remember. I remember the hell out of it. Several times over, sometimes. With batteries, sometimes. But alwaysalwaysalways it brings me back to the wonders of my physical self. Awakens the part of me that knows my body is wonderful and useful and beautiful. I glow with the reminder. I am awash in the waves of pure joy once again. And I once again carry the knowledge that this potato, this apple, this fishbowl is a temple and deserves to be respected and worshipped. Then, I take a shower, iron my shirt, and put on some lip gloss, tucking in the seams and getting on with my life. Mrs. Potato Head got nothin’ on me.

If you want to read more about Jennifer’s orgasms, damaging childhood, and parenting adventures, head on over to Fuck Yeah, Motherhood! You can also get to know her 140 characters at a time on twitter at @fyeahmotherhood or the slightly less p.c. sassypants version of herself, @thecheckoutgirl.