Here's me at my body-image worst: I daydream about being rich so I can afford plastic surgery to take care of all of my problem areas. I'd be able to wear the clothes I want to wear and to stop gazing longingly at a pair of pants and a couple of skirts that fit me before I had two little girls.

I know, I know. You're probably thinking I should just give up on that dream and accept that I'm not going to fit into them anytime soon. And you're probably thinking I should take the advice of organization gurus: get rid of clothes in my closet that I haven't worn in a year. And for the most part, I do—except for the iconic clothes of a bygone weight era.

Mostly, I have a pretty healthy body image, and I don't allow myself to revel too long in these infrequent daydreams. But occasionally, something sets me off into desiring a different body. Something like another woman commenting to me about how wide she thought my hips had become during my first pregnancy. Now I see myself through her eyes: me and my wide hips.

Or maybe I'm set off by catching a glimpse of myself in a picture and am surprised to find that I look heavier than I feel—especially since I don't eat too badly and try to exercise. When I see myself in the mirror, I don't feel so bad. But then I see myself in a photograph and think, "Is that really me?" And then I don't want any more pictures of myself because they remind me of what I no longer look like.

I want to spare myself the constant reminders these pictures become for me so I can be myself, less self-consciously. It's all so self-centered and full of vanity; I know. With all the problems in the world, I'm focusing on this? Really? ...

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