#sometimes you cant be skinny or muscular and thats okay

[the-apprentice-bebop]

I think it's about time people realise that even if you want the so called "perfect" body, you're probably never going to get it, and that's okay. Your body just needs to be healthy for you. Yeah, averages are good for making sure you aren't seriously underweight or overweight, but trying to achieve a statistical average will only cause you hassle when you're actually okay for who you are.

I'm a dude with a little bit of weight. I've got a stomach, pudgy arms, pudgy legs. I've always had it, and no matter what I do I will still have it. I can't achieve any chiseled look, but I still eat well and exercise a little and take care of myself as much as I can. I don't have any health problems that aren't hereditary. I'm decently strong.

My mother's job requires her to be on her feet constantly, wandering around a storeroom, pulling heavy things off shelves. Her watch can measure her heart rate and it shows that her heart rate is high enough for her to be doing cardio. And yet, she's not even close to skinny. She just can't be and she never has been.

My step-dad has visible abs even when resting, and obvious muscles, and is quite skinny, but he's also on so much medication that he'll hurt himself lifting heavy things half the time. I'm inclined to think the only reason he's strong is because he was in the army for a couple years.

My little brother literally does not gain visible weight, and honestly he doesn't weigh much anyway. He's pretty short so it's not too big of a problem, but if he was any taller he'd be severely underweight. And he eats really badly, anyways. He's always been skinny, but because he got older it's gotten worse and his spine literally sticks out of his back. I don't think he could gain any weight if he TRIED.

And that's all the same family.

Some people have different body types and not everyone is going to be the peak of physical wellness and fitness. I think it's high time we at least start accepting that we can't be perfect, even if we can't love ourselves for it. If your body isn't hurting you, why change it? It's perfectly okay like that for a reason.

[cloudbattrolls]

Coward Mont Blanc

Maidel Juzuxt | Present Night | Derevnya | Octavian Musical Arts Studios

Everyone calls it OMAS, or Oh, Masterfully Aimed, Shithead if they’re not fond of Treble. Even if they’re on the list of people who won’t kick him out of a room after ten minutes, they might still toss it off, teasing, but with an edge of bile.

It’s one of the reasons you get along with him, despite how different the two of you are. 

“So!” He says, plucking at his suspenders. “What’s got you in such a sulk, Maidel-girl? Or is it boy today.”

You’re in one of the studio’s dance rooms, one that’s empty at the moment since the next class won’t be for hours. Mirrors cover its walls, and overhead glowworm lamps dot the ceiling, giving off light even as they’re in stasis. Treble can feed, wake, and rearrange them at his will if needed for a choreography practice, as well as brighten them with the right formula. 

Right now they’re giving off a low yellowish glow as they sleep, clinging to the gray ceiling. It bathes your face in a sickly cast, or maybe that’s just your mood as you stare into one of the mirrors, clad in a suit that you look absolutely horrible in.

“Boy.” You say, but there’s not much spirit in it. Gender isn’t very important right now; it’s part of your bigger problem, but only in a small way. 

Sometimes you think it’d be easier if you just had no chest to worry about, and certainly sometimes you hate having to leave off your binder or worry about damage, the kind your psi can’t really repair fully. 

Other times you think rumblespheres at least give people something other to look at than your face or stomach. Not that they’re impressive, but at least it’s something. 

“What’s got you so down in the dumps, Maidel-boy? You nervous? Don’t be nervous, my cool cat! This joint will love you.”

That gets a small snort out of you, mostly because of Treble’s ridiculous speaking manner. It’s been perigees and you still don’t believe he can naturally talk that way, no matter how much he swears up and down he was hatched with it.

You turn a little, looking at yourself from another angle in the mirror, your hair pulled back into a ponytail so everyone can see your face. Great. You put a finger to one cheek, but lightly, to not ruin the makeup covering your freckles.

Treble leans in slightly, his eyebrows raised and ears flicking slightly. His aren’t nearly as mobile as yours, but you know what he’s thinking.

“I look better this way.” You say. “A little. Don’t try to tell me freckles are cute again, I’m not buying it.”

Not much you can do about your face in general. Your hair is okay. then there’s your body.

You’ve always been on the heavier side, and maybe that wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t look so stupid on you.

Highbloods being big fits them like a shell on a scuttlebeast. They have the tusks, the intimidation, the big sharp horns to go with it. Their fat doesn’t look like weakness; it only makes them look stronger, heartier, able to dominate.

You’ve been mistaken for blue twice, when you were wearing heavy clothing and goggles against the steam and snow. You were alarmed, then flattered, then a little depressed. 

Treble just clicks his tongue and shakes his head like you’re a silly, mildly disobedient lusus. “Maidel, Maidel, Maidel. Even if you don’t like them, doesn’t mean not a single troll in that joint won’t! You got to be honest about who you are! That’s the only way to make your brand.”

It takes a force of effort to not remind Treble that just because he keeps showing off who he is to the whole world, (despite getting laughed at and kicked out of multiple places) it doesn’t mean you want to go through the same.

That’d be cruel; Treble’s odd, but he’s been kind to you, and it’s hard to hate a troll who isn’t any more good looking than you but so much braver.

Even if sometimes you wish you could. 

“I don’t need a brand.” You mutter. “I just want to sing.”

When you’re finally on the stage, finally manage to forget where you and who you are and what you look like, that makes it all worth it. When you sing, you’re somewhere else, someone else. People have actually clapped for you before, and it wasn’t all just polite applause.

Treble loves to babble about how you could be the next big thing. All you want is to keep feeling that way for the rest of your life, even for little bits at a time. It’s enough.

He pauses, perhaps aware of the usual argument and realizing you don’t want to hear it. He almost chews on his claws, raising two to his mouth but he’s been trying to stop lately and drops them. 

“Maidel.” He says, gentle, which makes the hairs on the back of your neck prick up. “Singing aside, you really want to have this sort of bad juju brewing in you the rest of your natural life, my man?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” You say, trying to be dismissive, but dismissive from you sounds about as believable as a honk from a limeblood and Treble’s face is understandably if irritatingly skeptical. 

“‘Course it matters! You telling me you’re okay just going ‘aw, nuts, I hate how I look’ for all your sweeps? You gotta change yourself, or - ”

“ - change your bulbs, yes.” You sound a bit more testy than you’d like, but he’s told you this about ten times before.

“I tried to diet and exercise for a whole perigee, Treble. Aside from making me miserable, it barely did anything. I lost three pounds. Three pounds in that whole time! I don’t know what’s wrong with my stupid, garbage, messed up - ”

“Whoa! You really want to hate yourself that bad, man?”

You realize you’re breathing hard, eyes wide and - in the mirror - you see a hint of orange in them. 

Groaning, you cover your face with a soft palm, dragging your fingers through your curls.

“Olives are supposed to be lithe and muscular. Or else average looking, since everybody likes to say we’re the most boring caste.” You say, bitter. “Even being average like you would be better. Nobody thinks you’re ugly. They just think you’re normal.”

Maybe that’s rude, but you don’t care right now.

Treble plucks at his tie thoughtfully, but you can see a trace of pain in his eyes that wrenches your digestion sac. You’ll apologize to him later.

“Do people really tell you you’re ugly, Maidel-boy?” He says, curious. 

You snort. In a way, that’d almost be better.

“Hardly ever.” You admit, and he opens his mouth but you wave a finger and press on. “They don’t have to! They don’t even notice me, good or bad, compared to everyone else I know. They’re all pretty. None of them would ever consider a troll like me to be an option in any quadrant.”

You sound pathetic, even to yourself. It’s not like you expect the trolls you know to date you, or that you’d particularly want to date them in the first place. 

It’s how you’ve seen Riccin flirt, seen Pheres flirt, seen them have quadrants. Have people interested in them. Seen them know they’re beautiful, that they can get trolls just by being themselves.

Must be nice.

“So...what brought all this up from its deep dark spot, huh?”

You look at him blankly.

“Usually you’re a little down in the dumps, but not fit to yowl about it.”

You flush slightly. You guess you did raise your voice more than you meant to. 

“I’m sorry.” You say, throat tight. You shouldn’t even be talking to Treble about this. He has a moirail, a teal who works at one of the universities. You have no idea why he takes so much time with you to start with.

Especially if this is how you treat him.

You’d rather dive out the window than answer, but you owe him that much.

“I have an ash crush.” You admit, and it feels like a dirty word, a curse. Maybe it is. You have to be cursed if you’re stupid enough to have feelings for Riccin, who’s practically a clown, and who’s never cared about you.

Maybe it’s some messed up form of self-harm.

Treble looks puzzled, and for good reason.

“So why’re you all torn up about how you look?” 

Ash isn’t about that, is the clear implication. You almost laugh. If only he knew.

“Riccin wants pretty trolls in every quadrant.” You say, staring into the mirror at the disappointing image with a suit on a too-round figure. “Their kismesis and their ex ash are both little, skinny trolls, with pretty faces. And they’re close with Pheres, and he’s the same.”

Then there’s you, who’s as heavy as any two of them, not to mention that they think you’re dull as ditchwater. Even if you wanted to pursue this - if you were so blindingly stupid - how could you prove them wrong? You’d wear yourself out trying.

Not to mention that Vide would probably cull you. She seems like she’s still interested in them, and for all you know they might still be interested in her too. Riccin doesn’t give up easily.

“I think you’re feeling a bit too sorry for yourself, Maidel-boy.”

You glare at him, then sigh. He chuckles.

“So you got a hopeless crush. Happens to us all. Why let it mess your groove up so much, man? If there’s no worth wondering if you can, put your bulbs into what you are good at! Which is: belting out the tunes and making us both a little cash, hm?”

You snort. With Treble it all comes back to money or fame. Given how hard he works for it, you can’t blame him too much. The chances of an olive making it big - or even being an agent for anyone who does - are minimal. Somehow he still tries, still teaches and manages and performs, no matter who mocks him, no matter how many times he gets chased off.

“Okay.” You say. “Let’s go.”