Skin
Myths about my body, its weight, and its habits:
1) I was a fat kid.
I was a chubby kid. I weighed 100 pounds in third grade, and though I was tall for my age, I wasn't that tall. I was chubby since age 5 or so and stayed that way until I was about 9, when I "shot up"; within a year I was your average girl. On the heavier side of the height-weight charts, but not even overweight. I didn't realize this until this year.
2) I was always at least a little chubby.
Between 10 and 12, I was normal weight. I got chubby again around 13, but by the time I was 14 I was back to normal, at times on the slim side, though never unhealthily underweight. I stayed at a completely normal weight until my last year of college, went back down after moving to New York, and have fluctuated between healthy weight and a tad overweight since.
3) If only my thighs were smaller, I would be completely happy with my body.
Even during my normal-weight times, I have had big thighs. "The Gaskill thighs," as my mother called them with a biting affection when she saw me in a swimsuit in the fourth grade. They were my curse, the thing that kept me from being slender and "normal" and "pretty," as I said I wanted to be. In the past few years I have put on some weight that should probably come off, as it's not there when I am treating my body like it should be treated. It is in my stomach and arms. And now, when I look in the mirror, I see my wobbling stomach, my Lady Liberty arms. My thighs? I'm fine with them. If I lost weight and my stomach and arms went back to their size circa 2001, and then my thighs suddenly ceased to be bulbous, I wonder what it would be next? My beautiful, fit friend C is obsessed with the size of her pores. It will always be something.
4) I had an eating disorder.
I still don't know how much of this is myth. I don't know if I ever will. I know I skipped a lot of meals. I know I went days in a row without eating. I know I purged on occasion. I know I lied to my bulimic friend S in high school about how much I purged: I said I did it more than I did, to strengthen the bond between us. I know I read a lot of books on eating disorders, honing my skills, both of the "some girls use ipecac" variety and of the "anorexics are perfectionists and bulimics are compulsive; therefore, to be perfect, I should get anorexia instead of bulimia, which is too bad because I really love to eat" kind; I know my parents forbade me to do any more book reports on ED nonfiction books because they noticed how I got when I did them. I know my friends called my parents to tell them I was throwing away my lunch; I know I made sure my friends saw me do so. I know I read with my smart-girl eyes the phrase, over and over again in those books, It's not about food or weight; it's always something else and thinking For those girls, sure, but for me I just want to lose a few pounds.
5) I am not strong.
I never volunteered for anything involving lifting, even of the simplest variety. I was never frail, but I'd always cast myself as a weakling. I found out the opposite three or so years ago when I started to go to the gym. It was the first time I'd worked out for anything other than weight loss. I was shocked to find that I develop muscle quickly. I remember thinking something was strange when I watched myself in the mirror while washing my hands-I hadn't ever seen my upper pecs working before. I am no She-Ra; my muscles do not pop; I am not of the bodybuilding stature. But then this, a few weeks ago: I patiently wait for two young men, maybe 20 years old, to finish their rotations on the chest fly machine. When they leave and I step in, I increase the weight (for the record, they looked like they could have done more than they were doing, but they weren't). I see one of them nudge the other, and out of the corner of my eye I can see them watching me. I finish my sets and when I get up, I lock eyes with one of them. He, with a smile of admiration, not good-for-a-girl condescension, gives me a thumbs-up.
6) I will never be okay with my body.
My periods of detente with compulsive overeating are longer and longer. I don't hate what I see in the mirror; in fact, sometimes I look at it and say that I like it, that I'm happy with it, that if I had this body for the rest of my life that would be okay. But more often, there's still that nudge-the stomach, the arms, the baby-round face-that keep me from being truly and consistently happy with it. But okay? Yeah. I am okay with my body.
7) But, you know, I could always stand to lose a few pounds. Always.
I looked at Kirsten A.'s butt in French class at 14 and thought that one day maybe mine could look like that if I worked hard enough-certainly what I had was sloppy, unfinished, fat. I looked at Becky S.'s swimmer's muscles and curves at 16 and thought I could never look like that but I could dream. I looked at Salma Hayek's body in a magazine at 19 and wished my pudgy thighs could reconfigure themselves into the shape of hers. And then, at 21, I looked at a photo of myself at 14, for my winter formal. I am standing there in my crimson velvet halter dress, my hair swept back in curls, a faint smile on my pale face. I looked beautiful. I wish I could look like that now, I wish I could have that body now I thought. At 25 I looked at pictures of myself from when I was 21, smiling in front of a Swiss Chateau, leaning over a Venetian bridge railing, sunbathing on the Sicilian coast. I looked pretty. Happy. I wasn't fat; why didn't I see that? Now I look at a photo of myself at 25, a foot of hair suddenly missing, tasteful sweaters forsaken for ironic T-shirts, in a Williamsburg bar. And though I wince at the shirt and the purposefully messy hair, I do not see a heavy woman. I see a lovely young woman making a few fashion mistakes in search of identity. I don't wish I could look like her exactly, but sure enough, I wish I could revert to that body.
But more than that, I wish I knew what to tell myself, what to do for myself, that would mean I wouldn't need to wait another four years before I can look at a picture of myself and think, without surprise, I look good. I wish I knew what to do that would free me from the last remaining things that keep me from fully enjoying the body I have now, at 29, belly and arms and strength and thighs and all. Flawed and flawless, or maybe with flaws just speaking a lost language, its speakers dead, its words not understood by the survivors.
1) I was a fat kid.
I was a chubby kid. I weighed 100 pounds in third grade, and though I was tall for my age, I wasn't that tall. I was chubby since age 5 or so and stayed that way until I was about 9, when I "shot up"; within a year I was your average girl. On the heavier side of the height-weight charts, but not even overweight. I didn't realize this until this year.
2) I was always at least a little chubby.
Between 10 and 12, I was normal weight. I got chubby again around 13, but by the time I was 14 I was back to normal, at times on the slim side, though never unhealthily underweight. I stayed at a completely normal weight until my last year of college, went back down after moving to New York, and have fluctuated between healthy weight and a tad overweight since.
3) If only my thighs were smaller, I would be completely happy with my body.
Even during my normal-weight times, I have had big thighs. "The Gaskill thighs," as my mother called them with a biting affection when she saw me in a swimsuit in the fourth grade. They were my curse, the thing that kept me from being slender and "normal" and "pretty," as I said I wanted to be. In the past few years I have put on some weight that should probably come off, as it's not there when I am treating my body like it should be treated. It is in my stomach and arms. And now, when I look in the mirror, I see my wobbling stomach, my Lady Liberty arms. My thighs? I'm fine with them. If I lost weight and my stomach and arms went back to their size circa 2001, and then my thighs suddenly ceased to be bulbous, I wonder what it would be next? My beautiful, fit friend C is obsessed with the size of her pores. It will always be something.
4) I had an eating disorder.
I still don't know how much of this is myth. I don't know if I ever will. I know I skipped a lot of meals. I know I went days in a row without eating. I know I purged on occasion. I know I lied to my bulimic friend S in high school about how much I purged: I said I did it more than I did, to strengthen the bond between us. I know I read a lot of books on eating disorders, honing my skills, both of the "some girls use ipecac" variety and of the "anorexics are perfectionists and bulimics are compulsive; therefore, to be perfect, I should get anorexia instead of bulimia, which is too bad because I really love to eat" kind; I know my parents forbade me to do any more book reports on ED nonfiction books because they noticed how I got when I did them. I know my friends called my parents to tell them I was throwing away my lunch; I know I made sure my friends saw me do so. I know I read with my smart-girl eyes the phrase, over and over again in those books, It's not about food or weight; it's always something else and thinking For those girls, sure, but for me I just want to lose a few pounds.
5) I am not strong.
I never volunteered for anything involving lifting, even of the simplest variety. I was never frail, but I'd always cast myself as a weakling. I found out the opposite three or so years ago when I started to go to the gym. It was the first time I'd worked out for anything other than weight loss. I was shocked to find that I develop muscle quickly. I remember thinking something was strange when I watched myself in the mirror while washing my hands-I hadn't ever seen my upper pecs working before. I am no She-Ra; my muscles do not pop; I am not of the bodybuilding stature. But then this, a few weeks ago: I patiently wait for two young men, maybe 20 years old, to finish their rotations on the chest fly machine. When they leave and I step in, I increase the weight (for the record, they looked like they could have done more than they were doing, but they weren't). I see one of them nudge the other, and out of the corner of my eye I can see them watching me. I finish my sets and when I get up, I lock eyes with one of them. He, with a smile of admiration, not good-for-a-girl condescension, gives me a thumbs-up.
6) I will never be okay with my body.
My periods of detente with compulsive overeating are longer and longer. I don't hate what I see in the mirror; in fact, sometimes I look at it and say that I like it, that I'm happy with it, that if I had this body for the rest of my life that would be okay. But more often, there's still that nudge-the stomach, the arms, the baby-round face-that keep me from being truly and consistently happy with it. But okay? Yeah. I am okay with my body.
7) But, you know, I could always stand to lose a few pounds. Always.
I looked at Kirsten A.'s butt in French class at 14 and thought that one day maybe mine could look like that if I worked hard enough-certainly what I had was sloppy, unfinished, fat. I looked at Becky S.'s swimmer's muscles and curves at 16 and thought I could never look like that but I could dream. I looked at Salma Hayek's body in a magazine at 19 and wished my pudgy thighs could reconfigure themselves into the shape of hers. And then, at 21, I looked at a photo of myself at 14, for my winter formal. I am standing there in my crimson velvet halter dress, my hair swept back in curls, a faint smile on my pale face. I looked beautiful. I wish I could look like that now, I wish I could have that body now I thought. At 25 I looked at pictures of myself from when I was 21, smiling in front of a Swiss Chateau, leaning over a Venetian bridge railing, sunbathing on the Sicilian coast. I looked pretty. Happy. I wasn't fat; why didn't I see that? Now I look at a photo of myself at 25, a foot of hair suddenly missing, tasteful sweaters forsaken for ironic T-shirts, in a Williamsburg bar. And though I wince at the shirt and the purposefully messy hair, I do not see a heavy woman. I see a lovely young woman making a few fashion mistakes in search of identity. I don't wish I could look like her exactly, but sure enough, I wish I could revert to that body.
But more than that, I wish I knew what to tell myself, what to do for myself, that would mean I wouldn't need to wait another four years before I can look at a picture of myself and think, without surprise, I look good. I wish I knew what to do that would free me from the last remaining things that keep me from fully enjoying the body I have now, at 29, belly and arms and strength and thighs and all. Flawed and flawless, or maybe with flaws just speaking a lost language, its speakers dead, its words not understood by the survivors.