I have spent too many years obsessing over women's bodies and comparing them to my own. Anyone who pranced around with skinnier thighs - whether in stylish red pants or a teeny-weeny bikini - probably felt the heat from my scorn. It was almost laser-like. So. Unfair. My backside wasn't something I would even share with my husband (I had perfected the skill of maintaining front-to-side views when naked) and vacations that involved bathing suits made me crabby. I had my go-to pile of pants and shorts that I felt comfortable and confident in and deviating from that raised my threat level from orange to red. But one thing I began to notice when indulging in my obsession of checking women out, is that nearly every single woman on the planet falls into one of two camps: saddle bags (like me), or the pooch in the front. Of course there are the few who have no problem area but they don't count. God bless them for their genes or willingness to live on cigarettes and beef jerky. I am programmed for neither. Uncovering this truth was fascinating because it was consistent. Even in my posse. My friends with the pooch hated me for my flat-ish abs and likewise, I died a little each time I had to be in the company of the no-dimple type. During my fitness certification and overall interest in digging deeper and understanding the how's and why's of life, I read more about the painful truth that our bodies require more fat than men because of our responsibility to continue our species. While I appreciate this task and have added three humans to the world as a result, I wish we could have the honor of turning that hormone/fat switch off when it suits us.