I had an epiphany as I was walking out of the gym earlier this evening. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass door as I walked through it and I thought, “Great curves, but you could still stand to go down a few sizes.”

Seriously, Lydia? That’s what you care about right now?

As I got in my car, I came to realize that honestly, who cares about the numbers on a scale, or the number on the tag in my jeans. If I like how I look in the clothes I want to wear, what does it matter? Yeah, my doctor wants me to lose weight, but honestly, am I that unhealthy? Not really.

Every Sunday when I go in to my acting class, it always hits me that I’m the heaviest person in there. It’s pretty safe to generalize actors as people who care about their bodies and how they look quite a bit. We see who gets cast, and there aren’t a lot of Melissa McCarthy-esque roles out there. Should I let it get me down? No. Should I give up, throw in the towel, and eat ice cream every day? Definitely not. I just need to keep plugging away at my gym workouts, keep playing softball, and not listen to the media when they say there’s something really wrong with people who are overweight.

I bought a really cute pair of pants tonight with the express purpose of wearing them with either gray canvas sneakers or boots. They look amazing. And I do not give one single fuck about the size they are.

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