If Kim Kardashian wouldn’t post it, you shouldn’t either.
And I guess what I’m trying to say is that strangers look through my feed and feel like they understand my life. They think all those snapshot moments paint an accurate picture of who I am: the girl who travels all the time, who runs around in city parks, who writes sappy poems and drinks at fancy bars. The girl without a care in the world. But she’s not me. Sometimes I don’t recognize her at all.
This morning, I posted a selfie. With the occasional glance at my like count, I continued to untangle my headphones and settle down for some good ol’ procrastinating.
The one where you make everyone hear about the recipe you’re trying but then it turns out horribly so you delete it but now the 72 people who stuck by you through this shitty ordeal are now pissed.
But a real love does not do this to us, or for us. Instagram love is just a pretty love that keeps us lustful and greedy and never satisfied. I don’t want this false depiction of love in my life, or it’s insincerity in the lives of others. An Instagram love never impressed me because that’s all it ever tried to do.
I could do it. I could workout for hours on end and count calories with precision. I could get closer, and closer, and closer, to my best physical self. I could, but I don’t actually want to.
Body positivity is not about keeping “on the track to positivity.” Nor is it about self-care and it is especially not about diet recipes.
I could totally do this. But better.
You probably already know where I’m going with this, but it’s so much deeper than that.
I don’t know why I made this deal with them.