Even as I plucked a title for this post out of my brain, I wondered if it was, in fact, true. Have I gotten over most of those insecurities that plague almost all women in their youth? Yes, I think so. Am I completely cured of not loving one part of me or another? Most definitely not. When nature and my husband’s Y chromosome gave me two boys instead of girls, I was almost relieved. I would not have to navigate that delicate road of teaching a daughter how to love her body, no matter the shape or size, a task that seemed beyond daunting having already grown up in a sea of boys with a mother who was only capable of criticism. Mothers of girls, I am in awe of you. Soon, I realized that the way we spoke about about women, including myself, in front of our sons would dictate the way they saw and treated women in the future and I had anxiety all over again. Raising boys or girls to be good human beings is a huge responsibility, and if they learn nothing else from us, I want them to head out into the world knowing that all people have value and deserve kindness and respect, regardless of their size, shape, gender, sexuality or skin color. So, when we noticed that our oldest had put on a few pounds around the middle, due mostly to the perpetually craptastic weather of late, mixed with the current quarantine situation, my husband and I had our first discussion about how we would handle it. Or, more accurately, how we wouldn’t handle it. We would absolutely not say anything to him. The psychological repercussions of doing so would no doubt be infinitely worse than a little weight gain. Our solution was to do nothing. That’s right. Nothing. The warm weather would mean more running around and swimming in the pool. The kids tend to pick vegetables straight from the garden when they’re playing outside. Our town is putting together baseball teams this summer since they missed their regular season due to the Covid restrictions. Everything will be fine. But alas, they are boys and are not subject to the same scrutiny as girls, whether we want to admit it or not.
My first memory of my body being spoken about was at the age of seven. Let that sink in. SEVEN. I had just moved in with my new family and I was apparently too skinny. Well, geniuses, I ran around in the hot Georgia sun literally all day, and also…..genetics. My father and brother were tall and thin, my mother not at all short and a perfectly average weight. Clearly, I was not genetically destined to be a big person, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t as I should be in someone’s eyes and they weren’t shy about telling me. As I grew, I was left with feelings of shame at not having the curves that the other girls did. No hips, and no breasts to speak of. We didn’t talk about normal bodily functions in my family and I had no idea what was happening to me, but whatever, I figured it out on my own. Sooner or later, puberty must have caught up with me, because the next thing I knew, I was trying on dresses for a school dance and my father decided it was a great idea to tell me that I looked “hippy.” Can we all please just make up our minds???? And, boom, just like that, I became super conscious of my body in the wholly other direction.
High school and college were full of ups and downs of weight loss and gain, thin, chubby, thin, chubby. It was exhausting. Thin was too thin and chubby meant the boys would drift towards the other girls instead of me. After I returned from studying abroad in London, where I subsisted on a steady diet of fish and chips and beer, I was the biggest I had ever been at a size six or eight. I know that sounds completely ridiculous, but for someone who could never seem to be the right size to please anyone, it was upsetting. I pretty much stayed that way for quite some time, experimenting with different diets and even pills that I only took for one day because I felt like I was having a heart attack. In my twenties, I was able to get back to normal, just through actually having a job that paid for healthy food and a gym membership. That’s right, folks, the ability to be healthy is privilege. I went through a short bought of exercising entirely too much and not eating nearly enough, preferring to drink my calories in downtown Portsmouth, while maintaining a size zero. At this point, it was obvious that our society had changed, because I was no longer “too skinny.” Instead, I was told how great I looked. Man, people are so bizarre. I probably stopped this crazy lifestyle just short of an eating disorder and I am grateful to the logical head I had on my shoulders that told me I was actually being pretty unhealthy. With a wedding in the works and kids on the brain, I wanted to set myself right. The good news is, I had the wherewithal to do so, not every woman is so lucky.
Cue marriage and kids. My husband has loved me for the last seventeen years, and has loved my body from a size four, to a zero, to gigantically pregnant, all the way to the fallout of those two pregnancies. The toll on my body hasn’t been too horrible because, again, genetics most likely. Having kids seemed to do the trick though. My focus has shifted, and instead of being obsessed with being a size zero, I now give zero fucks. I am forty and I have no desire to spend my coveted family time counting calories or comparing myself to others. My body has settled into the place it is supposed to naturally be, or at least I assume it has since I’m not doing anything special. We eat mostly healthy as a family, with plenty of treats sprinkled in. (Parents, if you deprive your kids of all naughty food in childhood, they will eat everything in sight when they get to college. Trust me on that). I run a few times a week, not for anything to do with weight, but for my own sanity. It’s the only alone time I get these days. Also, I like knowing that I could most likely outrun any attacker, it strangely makes me feel just a little bit safer being a woman.
I know my story does not stand alone. From the single digit age range, girls are forced to endure comments about their bodies and appearance. Those fleeting remarks, no matter how well-intentioned or complimentary, can have lasting effects on their self esteem and body image. The truth is, we all change, as we are supposed to. We are not the same at forty as we were at thirty, twenty, thirteen or seven. When we’re told how perfect we are as a child, we feel less so as an adult when our bodies inevitably change and develop. When we’re told we’re not perfect, we feel like we can never get there. There’s no winning. So let’s just stop. Let’s tell girls about all the things they can be and do, all the amazing badass things their bodies are capable of. Can we just imagine if men had periods and babies? Oh my god, we would never hear the end of it. I love my husband, but he’s annoying when he just has a cold. If men had cramps once a month, the whole world would shut down. Girls need to be reminded of their awesomeness, but can we just not make it all about looks? Please and thank you.
Let's Be Dramatic 