Thursday, my favorite day of the week. Todd was off, we had a whole day to look forward to. I didn’t care what we did, I was just happy to have him home. I figured he’d work on the laundry room and I’d get going on my quilt, we’d go out for lunch, perfect. But checking my phone, I saw that our friend had sent us our family pictures we’d done last fall. Yay! I couldn’t wait to see them because it was the last time when all of us were together and I had no idea when that would happen again. She had been asking me for years to let her take our family pictures, and I was curious what she had been able to do with our group.
And at first glance, I loved them. They are just beautiful. The field, the colors, the lighting, the way she captured the personalities of the kids, our dog, just so well done; she is an expert for sure, and I was impressed.
And then I felt like crumbling. I thought maybe it was just a bad angle, but in every single one there was a problem with me. I loved the color of the shirt I chose—blue is my favorite, but I don’t wear this shirt very often and I remembered when I put it on that the fabric was an issue. But I have so few clothes I feel good in that I just went with a color I liked and tried to not worry about how it fit. When I saw the pictures, I couldn’t get over how pretty they were, just so bright and yet so natural, and then I just cringed when I saw the fat rolls around my middle with my pretty-colored top clinging to them.
I'm not ashamed of my body, I'm usually very accepting and try to just do my best and move on. I am a pretty realistic, upbeat, and laid-back person; most things don’t ruffle me, least of all superficial things like clothes and looks. I am also not one to obsess about my body or weight; we don’t even own a scale and I refuse to buy one. I would define myself as a totally average mom with 5 kids. I haven’t worked out at a gym since college, I didn’t even own a pair of regular exercise pants till this fall. I never ever count calories or steps, I don’t want to be tied to or defined by numbers. Even so, this picture—and my ensuing reaction—both surprised and saddened me.
This is one reason I hate getting my picture taken. I don’t feel like a photo captures the essence of a person, we’re only getting part of the story when we look at a picture. And who’s to say it’s accurate or an honest portrait?
But here it was in living color. I know. I shouldn’t care, it’s not a big deal, no one’s looking at me, plus I’m older and it’s just life to have gained a few pounds by now. I could make excuses, maybe even legitimate ones like my pants were low-rise and there’s no where for excess to go but up to my middle in situations like that, or maybe it’s the tamoxifen I’ve been on for six years that has caused me to gain these ten extra pounds I can’t seem to shake, or maybe it’s that my metabolism is slowing down, I’m going on 50, my body isn’t as efficient as it used to be. I know I would never fault anyone else for having a little (or lot) extra, I couldn’t care less what people look like, I just want to be friends.
But I spiraled. I felt the smallest of tears. I was so embarrassed. By both my reflection as well as my reaction. I wanted to hide these pictures even as I was obsessed, wondering if with clear eyes I would have a new thought if I looked again. I couldn’t get over it. It was utter nonsense and so out of character for me. There are very, very few pictures I feel confident in, but I believe it’s important for moms to be in them, and so I allow them and even post some. I was ashamed that I cared and ashamed that I’d not thought my outfit through for something that would be front and center in my home. At the same I also felt perplexed because as much as I try not to worry about appearances, I also try so hard to be healthy.
At this time I was in the middle of a book called Hunger, a memoir of a woman who feels trapped inside her “fortress” of a body; she is what they call super morbidly obese. She knowingly created a means of protection as she simultaneously and wistfully wonders who she would’ve been if she hadn’t endured the trauma she continues to harbor. Here are some of her words,
“I’ve been thinking a lot about feeling comfortable in one’s body and what a luxury that must be. Does anyone feel comfortable in their bodies? Glossy magazines lead me to believe that this is a rare experience, indeed. The way my friends talk about their bodies also leads me to that same conclusion. Every woman I know is on a perpetual diet. I know I don’t feel comfortable in my body, but I want to and that’s what I am working toward. I am working toward abandoning the damaging cultural messages that tell me my worth is strictly tied up in my body. I am trying to undo all the hateful things I tell myself. I am trying to find ways to hold my head high when I walk into a room. I know that it isn’t merely weight loss that will help me feel comfortable in my body. Intellectually I do not equate thinness with happiness” (Roxanne Gay).
I feel that she’s onto us, she’s inside our heads, she gets it. Of course we know that being a certain size could never determine our sense of happiness, we’re smarter than that, we’re well aware of the industries and their tactics. But hearing her thoughts expressed so honestly, so accurately, so genuinely… I feel like none of us is immune.
Regardless of the shape or size we’re in, we’re at the mercy of expectations. We think they’re self-imposed, that we are above all that, that we’re not the kind to buy into it all, we’re aware, we’ve got our eyes wide open, we are in control. I consciously try to push all that aside, I try to be healthy but still live and enjoy life and our culture that embraces celebrating with food. I refuse to diet just as I refuse to give up treats. I try to not stress, to not worry about a few extra pounds, to teach my kids healthy habits rather than to achieve a certain look. Even as I silently wonder what’s wrong with me, why I can’t be svelte and slim through my middle, why I hang on to a little extra when I try to be so conscientious, why others have more will power, dedication, or luck. Even as I try to sidestep the culture, apparently I am still affected. I can’t decide what my melancholy was, shame that I had a little extra or shame that I cared.
It’s too soon to know what my final reaction will be. As for that day, I had an anemic salad and water when we went out to lunch, usually one of my favorite pastimes, now shrouded with fear of eating, of adding to the problem even as I was aware of the incongruity of what I was doing. I was hungry even as we cleared our dishes, and with every meal I’ve prepared since I’ve wondered if this is where I’m going wrong, if this is why. I hate that our world has this kind of influence and hold on me, that even though we know better we still can’t help but get sucked in.
My take-home message from the day is not one I’m exactly proud of, yet it’s where I am. I hope to continue to embrace a moderately healthy lifestyle, and yet I refuse to give my traditions away just to fit into smaller clothes. I will most likely just keep working out at home as I have for decades and will probably never join a gym. I love food and gathering around it, and I’m not about to give up sugar or bread. I will continue to focus on teaching my kids to eat well, to move, to get outside, to ignore the number on the tags in their clothes, and to just embrace the bodies they have. I love the rest of the picture so much, but I cropped the bottom half off when I posted it, maybe out of self-preservation, maybe because I’m still processing that this is where I am these days. And I will probably also steer clear of clingy material from here on out. :)
