As I, Bunny, detailed not so long ago, I have an evil body image problem. And the problem has gotten worse, as I inadvertently gained an ungainly — gasp! — 20 pounds in '97. Though by the latest BMI (body mass index) standards used to measure appropriate weight, I still fall into the ideal category, I'm not convinced. "You must love your body" is what I preach to others, but digesting this is far less easy for me than digesting, say, yet another plate of Alfredo.

'Twas not always the case. Once upon a time, I, Bunny, practiced my "all bodies are beautiful" theory in two ways. First, I fornicated with overweight man upon overweight man (wait, I mean, one at a time — they weren't upon each other as in stacked up upon — Bunny is only so strong...) Second, for a little while, I really did like my body. Not because it was perfect — it wasn't. But because I had achieved, for once in my life, a sense of Bunny wholeness, a melding of mind, body, and spirit as touted on YMCA t-shirts. I was not, as I had once been, a collection of parts (big hips, gravity enhanced bosom, bouncy butt), I was one, fabulous, whole me.

Somehow though, as I put on the poundage last year, I let that old self-loathing slip back in. I got mad at myself. And anger, my friends, reproduces like bunnies. Grows faster than the waist or thighs. Makes accepting yourself near impossible, and changing yourself even harder. My attempts to get back to being annoyingly fit were thwarted not by my legs — they ran, ran, ran on the treadmill daily — but by my head. I hated the equipment at the gym, viewed it as enemy, not friend, and consoled myself by skipping sessions. I consoled myself further with shitty food.

At least I now know what I have to do if I'm ever going to be whole again. This puts me a step ahead of where I was back in '93 when I first started exercising seriously and lost 50 pounds. Back then, at first, it was all about body, body, body. But out on the running trail, I fast grew confused — there were all these skinny things jogging in a big circle to nowhere, ensconced too-tightly in their shiny Lycra pants, their brightly colored faux-fleece sweatshirts. These folks were not just out here for the physical benefits — I mean, look at them, they were already borderline anorexic — if not trimming, then what was their purpose, chugging religiously through the numbing winter, the sweltering heat of summer?

It took me, Bunny, a good eight months to figure it out.

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