Size matters.

I mean my size matters. To me.

In the last eleven months I have lost 60 pounds, which I’m pretty sure is the equivalent of an Olson twin. My pants are four sizes smaller, my tops two. Kohl’s saw me an awful lot this summer: I shrunk out of most of my wardrobe and had to replenish. A number of coworkers congratulated me on the loss when I showed up at in-service earlier this month, and three former students at the ball game on Friday night said, “I almost walked right by without recognizing you!” Just a couple of days ago, a former student visited the high school and said, “You’re so tiny!” That might be a stretch, but it does bear witness to the size I was versus the size I am now. And I’m still shrinking.

Why bring that up on the sex blog? As one of my favorite babysitting charges used to say, “Well, you see…it’s involved.”

First of all, I’m sitting here writing this in a dress I never would’ve tried on, much less bought, when I was larger. But as soon as I slip it on with my high-heeled sandals, I feel very sexy and catch myself looking in the same mirrors and windows I loathed before. Honestly, I never knew what “sexy” felt like until this summer. That has a definite effect on your bedroom life—when you feel unsexy all the time, you want nighttime, lights-off, under-the-covers sex. You don’t want to see your shape if it’s at all avoidable. It’s difficult to be willing to share your body when you can’t stand the sight of it yourself.

Second, I catch myself dancing all the time. I love the way it feels to be in this body now. I love the way it feels to move. Lest you be misled, trust me, I harbor no illusions of grandeur when it comes to graceful gliding across a dance floor. But these days it’s a challenge to make it all the way through a sinkful of dishes or a ten-minute shower without shaking my groove thang. It just feels so good to be in a smaller body.

Third, I have a brand-new idea of what “sexy” means. I used to think I wasn’t sexy because I didn’t have Kim Kardashian’s legs or Jennifer Aniston’s knockers. But the thing is, sexy has almost nothing to do with measurements and everything to do with perspective. My legs will never give Kim’s a run for their money. But I feel every bit as sexy as she does when she’s on that red carpet…and probably more. After all, there are no paparazzi scrutinizing every inch of my skin. Sexy is how comfortable you are in your own skin, behind your own face, stretched into your own height. Sexy is looking in the mirror and thinking, “I don’t want to trade with anyone else today. I like what I’ve got.”

When I was a teenager, my insecurity about my body caused me to become hypersensitive and even a little arrogant about other areas, such as my grades and my music. I figured if I didn’t have looks on my side, I was going to have to do something else to get people’s attention. I’m a perfectionist anyway, so it comes as no surprise that I took great pride in my 3.95 GPA (stupid calculus) and position as accompanist to the choirs. While I was never exactly obnoxious about either of these things, I certainly didn’t pass up an opportunity to mention them if they were at all relevant to the conversation at hand. But as I grew up and even more as I’ve lost weight, I’ve noticed a much-diminished need of validation by others. I feel confident and happy with who I am and how I look, and it’s caused so much of that old insecurity to evaporate. I won’t lie: it feels absolutely wonderful to get a compliment on my physical appearance. For the longest time, that was one aspect of myself that I felt didn’t deserve any positive recognition at all. However, I’m no longer constantly looking toward others to assure me that I’m at least passably attractive. I am finally inching my way toward a healthier body image and, consequently, a healthier self-concept all around. And at least for me, that has proven an extremely important component in the battle for healthy sexuality.