Two-piece. No-peace.

Just say the words , “bikini season” and every women in ear shot will feel a chill down their spine. "Wait," the mind says, “Don’t I have more time?!” No! It is upon us, like a plague that comes around once every year. . .

Why is this season such a nightmare? It’s kind of sad that we wait all year long to get a bit of warmth and sunshine and then it's burdened by the feeling of doom. . . At some point we will be expected to shed the comfort and security of our pants and be forced to reveal what usually only our bathroom mirror is privy too. . . our fannies and backs of our legs.

And if you’re like nearly every woman on the planet, you tell yourself that by “June” you will be ready to bear your legs and midriff. It’s what most of us work for, all year long. It’s the time when we will reveal our months and months of hard workouts and good nutrition choices. We will strut our stuff in short shorts, tube tops, and bikinis. Rock our hard bodies. Own it. Like only CrossFit chicks can.

Right? Oh, wait. . . no, most of that is complete crap. Because even those of us who work out -- five or more days a week, watch our diets, and care about PR’s and WOD times, and obsess about our Oly form. . . are as insecure as anyone else.

At the core, the majority of women, are not satisfied with who we are. Our boobs are not perfect. Either too big, too small, too saggy. Or for some of us, they are almost non-existent (which is fun while living in the world of implants). Our tummy’s pose all sorts of issues. Extra cushion, which is quite stubborn. Stretch marks. Our little gifts from our babies. Crepe-paper-extra skin which doesn’t go away, even when the extra pounds do. Our assses. Well, I could write a whole page about asses. They are too big, too flat, too floppy, too droopy, too dimpled, too. . . well, you get the point. And don’t even get me started on the area we call the “saddle bags,” or the “butternut” as my dear friend refers to hers.

My point is, we all have parts of us that we don’t care for. Even hate, I suppose. And it’s a bit different for all of us. I hate my legs. My vastus-intermedialus, vastus-lateralus, and specifically, my vastus-medialis. In layman’s terms, I hate my quads. I am quite muscular. And although I appreciate what my legs do for me, I wish they’d have chosen to be a bit smaller in that area. I see other girls that lift and are strong. They don’t have legs like mine. Mine are big. I can’t do a dang thing about it. Except try to find a way to appreciate the benefits of my legs. And my small boobs. . . and . . . every other part of my body that I wish I could change.

You see, all of us struggle with body image. Even the girl that I watched at the 2010 CrossFit Games this weekend -- who I thought was “perfect.” She doesn’t believe that. She’d have a list all her own of all the things she wishes she could change. A list of self-imposed imperfections.

So what do I do with this knowledge? Knowing that none of us believe we are good enough? That all of us fall short of where are want to be?

As an intelligent woman of faith, I should know, without doubt, that “we” insecure women are all so very wrong. We don’t know how good we have it. We are bitching about little “things” while others are dealing with disease or birth defects. We are focused on “perfection” rather than “well-being.”

I should be grateful for my healthy body that I work so hard for. Embrace my legs for their strength. Be thankful for the tiny breasts that nursed both of my daughters for almost 5 years. (Yes, I said TWO daughters and FIVE years. Gasp. Different topic). I should know that the stretch marks on my body, mark time – time of a blessed life lived. I should know that my imperfections make me unique, not horrible. Being able to work out is a piece of good fortune and moving my body is a gift.

I should laugh in the face of bikini season. But even knowing what I do, the stupid, insecure girl in me. . . doesn’t.