Belt as metaphor: An exercise in lateral thinking and axe throwing.

I have a fair amount of body dysmorphia. Or, well, I guess I should be a bit more clear - I really don't like my body. They way it slops around everywhere it goes, the stout, wide nature of it. I've never much cared for the thing, even when I was at fighting weight and svelte (clearly a decade ago, for those that know me, now). And while I've kinda come to an overall acceptance of it now, it was not always so.

But when I start really getting down on myself about this glubby body, I remind myself of a belt. Not just any belt, mind, but a very specific belt I bought when I was in high school. Stay with me - the point of all this will start forming, soon.

See, I needed a belt for my Hersheypark uniform - it was required. And so I got one. And the one I got was, you know, cheap and from Wal-Mart and one of those reverse, two-color ones. And, of course, it fit me. But I was just 14 at the time, and my body wasn't done with its expansion.

So the belt started getting tight. But I was so ashamed of becoming bigger that I refused to, you know, buy another belt. One that fit. So I'd work all day wearing this too-tight belt, then I'd come home and find that the ding-dang thing had left deep impressions in my skin. Or cuts. Or was soooooo tight I'd get light headed with the pressure difference in my body from taking it off. You know. The usual.

And that kind of self-induced-suffering continued well into my twenties. I'd buy some new piece of clothing (pants, mostly) and I'd grow beyond its confines, but I'd refuse to get the next larger clothing item. I'd just try to squeeeeeze my way into the clothes I already had. Because it was my fault the clothes didn't fit, and I didn't deserve to be comfortable.

I thought if you want to be comfortable, you need to change yourself - not change what's around you. And I carried that truly poisonous idea with me for decades. But then -- and I don't quite remember how -- I spit it out.

I started buying clothing that actually fits. Belts that had plenty of options for where to cinch. Pants that didn't make it feel like I was being constricted by a very strong, very grumpy snake. And you know what? doing that didn't make me any less round, nor any more round. It just made me comfortable.

Okay, okay, so how does this apply at all to the sport of axe throwing? Well, to be completely honest, I don't know it really does. I mean, okay, I do have a reason for writing about it, but maybe it won't make sense when I draw out this connection:

I feel like there is an expectation in this sport to always set goals, always get better, and "achieve" something as part of the experience. And sometimes the uber-focus on stats and rankings and everything else...it smacks of that belt I bought so very long ago. Focusing on that stuff is great, if it's good for you to do that. But for me, oh, for me? For me sometimes it feels like I'm trying to make myself fit into something I'm maybe a bit too (imma write it) husky for.

Stats are fun. Goals are great. Wanting to achieve in something you're passionate about just makes sense. But if you're losing your sense of comfort to do it? I mean, if you are not allowing yourself to just enjoy it, what are we doing, here?

For the past...2 seasons(?) and 2 tourneys, I've just let myself have all the room I want. I don't care about how I'm doing in the rankings, I barely give a damn about how I finish the tourney. I just want to be comfortable while I'm around friendly people. I might come up with goals, but God help me, I almost never remember what they were by the time the last axe is thrown.

I don't think I'm saying anything really groundbreaking, here. But on Sunday we had a big axe marathon tourney, and I finished last in the league and who knows where in the tourney (0-2 babeeeyyy), and I was sore the next day and I was very openly complaining about my little fingies the day of, but I was comfortable and I was happy and we got ice cream afterwards. And that felt so much more true to myself than giving a damn about my averages.