Settling Back In to My Own Skin
A brief history of my body, or rather, just the thickness of the fat deposits between my skin and my muscles.
I was not a huge child, but I always had a belly that stuck out. The hand-me-downs from the tall elven cousins would always bunch up at the wrists and ankles, constrict around my middle. But when we were buying new clothes, I did not have to go to specialty stores, just occasionally have the embarrassment of "hefty" sized jeans.
My mother was a different body shape than I, small and slim, her only curves right on her chest where society dictated they were most desirable. Her mother was smaller still, skinny with a scant few curves. I'm not sure where in my family line this tall and big shape comes from, with the largest fat deposits on the hips and butt, secondarily on the lower belly.
Wherever it came from, it was not a familiar shape to my mother. She encouraged me to diet beginning in the second grade- I have a written record. Though sugar was already extremely limited in my house, she tried to dissuade me from ordering desserts when we were out. I was not fat, but she made me feel fat.
In high school, I took to wearing size XL T-shirts, though my actual size was probably M. They were the only things that would just barely touch my wide hips. They let me swim in the extra folds of fabric like my mother, who to this day only seems to dress up in billowy folds.
Perhaps this is an older sense of Jewish covering-up, trickling down into our family's culture, but it was an odd one. My mother has never felt ashamed of being nude in front of me, but I've never seen her in even a shirt that touched the very small curve of her belly.
I was around 180 pounds from when I gained my full height and curves through college and into my twenties. I may well have the famed big bones, but I think much of that weight is muscle mass. I have satyr-like thighs and a strong core, biceps that can handle 15 pound dumbbells even when I haven't done a curl in years.
Let's skip over the doctor that frowned at that weight, since her chart indicated even 160 pounds was well overweight. Let's skip over the brushes with bulimia and anorexia that followed as I tried in vain to fight my biology and love of tasty food. In college, I slowly worked towards liking my hips. So I showed them off by wearing tight shirts and flowy skirts, or cutting the bottoms off of size L T-shirts to show a strip of flesh between my shirt and pants.
I lived at home until I was 26. I jogged and hiked and biked, I ate fish and pricey beef at almost every dinner and maintained my weight fine. I once had a long commute and joined a gym- the more intense exercise slimmed away what belly I had. There was a circus-themed night at Club Hell, and I strode around dressed as a lion, in a sports bra and pants, more belly on public display than I ever have before. But why not? It was nearly flat, acceptable. I felt so sexy that night, and there were appreciative stares all around me.
I moved out, and quickly gained forty pounds of flesh. I was exercising far less, and eating more pasta, sausages, candy. At first I was deeply uncomfortable, but I slowly grew accustomed to it. The last thirty pounds came on much more slowly, over my thirties I guess. An even more sedate lifestyle is what I'd blame it on. And sure, I felt disgusted with my body sometimes, but the third-wave feminism I'd learned in college had given me the keys to really love and appreciate my body. Yoga helped as well, since the first thing you do in every good class is to just breathe and thank your body for all that it does for you.
In 2015, I had a health scare that brought with it a change in diet. The scale started sliding the other way, to my astonishment. I was still so sedentary! Then in the fall of 2016, I got a job in a deli. I'd only had office jobs before, really, and now I was in constant motion. I loved saying that I worked my ass off at that job, because it was so literally true. Thirty pounds was gone by the time that irascible boss finally managed to fire me, last May.
Though the loss happened over the course of a year and a half or so, I found it both exciting and unnerving. Was this really my body? My thighs look so different. My arms are losing those bat-wings, yes, but . . . are they still mine? What if I kept losing so much flesh, I wasn't a plus size anymore? Would I still be welcome among the fativists I admired?
Then Tiger and I broke up, and I just let myself slam down into despair. I stopped believing I could get a job again. I ate within my new guidelines, but ignored the smaller portions I'd been trying for. Comfort food for broken hearts yes. All the chocolate yes. Leave the house? Exercise? Why?
I'm sure every ounce of those thirty pounds are back on me again. I am in my old body again, the one where the curve of the butt begins almost in the middle of my back. Bat-wings galore, nice thick thundery thighs. Boobs that are again triangular and downward-pointing. Yes, that's a less pretty shape than they were, but it's my shape.
Other friends talk of losing the baby weight, or otherwise speak with genuine relief at "getting my body back". I know how they feel. I'm not afraid. If I someday end up a 180-pound woman who only gets XL shirts if she wants to feel lost in them, so be it. But I'm happy where I am, too. I like my life, sedentary or dashing about. As long as I remember to keep ahold of clothes that can fit all the shapes my body likes to be, I'll be fine. I refuse to get on the yo-yo dieting ride again. Even if neverending diets or mild overexercise-bulimia is a normal state of American womanhood, it's not for me. I'll just be what I'll be.
I was not a huge child, but I always had a belly that stuck out. The hand-me-downs from the tall elven cousins would always bunch up at the wrists and ankles, constrict around my middle. But when we were buying new clothes, I did not have to go to specialty stores, just occasionally have the embarrassment of "hefty" sized jeans.
My mother was a different body shape than I, small and slim, her only curves right on her chest where society dictated they were most desirable. Her mother was smaller still, skinny with a scant few curves. I'm not sure where in my family line this tall and big shape comes from, with the largest fat deposits on the hips and butt, secondarily on the lower belly.
Wherever it came from, it was not a familiar shape to my mother. She encouraged me to diet beginning in the second grade- I have a written record. Though sugar was already extremely limited in my house, she tried to dissuade me from ordering desserts when we were out. I was not fat, but she made me feel fat.
In high school, I took to wearing size XL T-shirts, though my actual size was probably M. They were the only things that would just barely touch my wide hips. They let me swim in the extra folds of fabric like my mother, who to this day only seems to dress up in billowy folds.
Perhaps this is an older sense of Jewish covering-up, trickling down into our family's culture, but it was an odd one. My mother has never felt ashamed of being nude in front of me, but I've never seen her in even a shirt that touched the very small curve of her belly.
I was around 180 pounds from when I gained my full height and curves through college and into my twenties. I may well have the famed big bones, but I think much of that weight is muscle mass. I have satyr-like thighs and a strong core, biceps that can handle 15 pound dumbbells even when I haven't done a curl in years.
Let's skip over the doctor that frowned at that weight, since her chart indicated even 160 pounds was well overweight. Let's skip over the brushes with bulimia and anorexia that followed as I tried in vain to fight my biology and love of tasty food. In college, I slowly worked towards liking my hips. So I showed them off by wearing tight shirts and flowy skirts, or cutting the bottoms off of size L T-shirts to show a strip of flesh between my shirt and pants.
I lived at home until I was 26. I jogged and hiked and biked, I ate fish and pricey beef at almost every dinner and maintained my weight fine. I once had a long commute and joined a gym- the more intense exercise slimmed away what belly I had. There was a circus-themed night at Club Hell, and I strode around dressed as a lion, in a sports bra and pants, more belly on public display than I ever have before. But why not? It was nearly flat, acceptable. I felt so sexy that night, and there were appreciative stares all around me.
I moved out, and quickly gained forty pounds of flesh. I was exercising far less, and eating more pasta, sausages, candy. At first I was deeply uncomfortable, but I slowly grew accustomed to it. The last thirty pounds came on much more slowly, over my thirties I guess. An even more sedate lifestyle is what I'd blame it on. And sure, I felt disgusted with my body sometimes, but the third-wave feminism I'd learned in college had given me the keys to really love and appreciate my body. Yoga helped as well, since the first thing you do in every good class is to just breathe and thank your body for all that it does for you.
In 2015, I had a health scare that brought with it a change in diet. The scale started sliding the other way, to my astonishment. I was still so sedentary! Then in the fall of 2016, I got a job in a deli. I'd only had office jobs before, really, and now I was in constant motion. I loved saying that I worked my ass off at that job, because it was so literally true. Thirty pounds was gone by the time that irascible boss finally managed to fire me, last May.
Though the loss happened over the course of a year and a half or so, I found it both exciting and unnerving. Was this really my body? My thighs look so different. My arms are losing those bat-wings, yes, but . . . are they still mine? What if I kept losing so much flesh, I wasn't a plus size anymore? Would I still be welcome among the fativists I admired?
Then Tiger and I broke up, and I just let myself slam down into despair. I stopped believing I could get a job again. I ate within my new guidelines, but ignored the smaller portions I'd been trying for. Comfort food for broken hearts yes. All the chocolate yes. Leave the house? Exercise? Why?
I'm sure every ounce of those thirty pounds are back on me again. I am in my old body again, the one where the curve of the butt begins almost in the middle of my back. Bat-wings galore, nice thick thundery thighs. Boobs that are again triangular and downward-pointing. Yes, that's a less pretty shape than they were, but it's my shape.
Other friends talk of losing the baby weight, or otherwise speak with genuine relief at "getting my body back". I know how they feel. I'm not afraid. If I someday end up a 180-pound woman who only gets XL shirts if she wants to feel lost in them, so be it. But I'm happy where I am, too. I like my life, sedentary or dashing about. As long as I remember to keep ahold of clothes that can fit all the shapes my body likes to be, I'll be fine. I refuse to get on the yo-yo dieting ride again. Even if neverending diets or mild overexercise-bulimia is a normal state of American womanhood, it's not for me. I'll just be what I'll be.