What better way to continue my winter blues than to suddenly and unwittingly become painfully aware of the fact that my body has turned thirty and is leaving my attitude behind. I still think like I’m 17, but I sure don’t look like it. Gray hairs show up when I don’t get my hair colored frequently enough. I have dark circles under my eyes even when I get enough sleep. I have lines (LINES!) on my forehead. Where did those come from? Most of my jeans don’t fit right, if they fit at all. I am two pounds away from where I was in that picture that Mr. saw; the one at my brother’s house that made him say, “Whoa! That was you? You were porky.” Which was somewhat funny (OK, not that funny) but now it’s really not funny, because, well, I don’t want to be porky, and I am. Plus, it was after my brother said, “Hey, come look at how fat j was.”
I can deal with the gray (color) and the dark circles (makeup) and the lines (firming lotion). But the porkiness? (is that a word?) I’m too lazy to get rid of that. I just want it to go away, and give back my flat, firm belly
I think about all of the hangups I have had, and some that I still have, regarding my weight and body. And really, it’s not very fair, because, I’ve never been all that bad. I sure have always been self concious about it, though. I’ve never been grossly overweight. I used to be quite skinny actually. So, I got teased for that. I never grew boobs, which you would think I would have accepted by now, but I don’t. And I still get teased for that. It’s all good natured fun, I know, but it still stings. My legs are a little thicker than I think is acceptable, this happened about the age of sixteen. I dealt with that, even though I hated the fact that I had cellulite as a teenager. And now? Now I have cellulite on my belly. This cannot be happening. I need to do some sort of cardio, right? To burn off the fat? Because the crunches and squats and all of that other pilates crap just isn’t working. Except for my arms and shoulders. That part of me is actually kind of nice.
My mom started my hangups, I think. She was always talking about her small frame (only two pounds heavier in the winter! Woo!) in a way that made me feel that I was supposed to end up the same size as her, and if I didn’t, well, that would just be WRONG. Nevermind that I am built nothing like her. (I’m only about an inch taller, but my legs are WAY longer than hers. I have a shorter torso.) So I held at that weight. The same weight as dear old complex-causing mom. I held that weight for a LONG time. I held it until my first marriage, actually. Then I guess I gained the weight because I really didn’t care what I looked like or what he thought of me. But you know what? I still wasn’t that big. I wasn’t “fat”. I never even made it out of a size seven for Christ’s sake. But my family had a field day with this. They still do, when they look at old pictures of when I was “fat”.
I lost the weight when I got divorced. I was back down to my mother’s target weight for me. “Oh, you look so good!” she would exclaim. Meanwhile, the people at work would say, “Oh, honey, you need to eat, you’re getting so skinny!” Which was it, I wondered to myself. I can’t possibly be both.
I held that weight for a bit longer, which, unfortunately, was during time I met the Mr. Guess who has a new “expectation” of what my weight should be? Nevermind that during that time I was living on Slim Fast and ice cream and amaretto sours. Very nourishing. Needless to say, I have gained the weight back. And I feel fat. And I feel like such an asshole when I think that way, because, really, if I look in the mirror, WITH CLOTHES ON, I look pretty OK. If I see myself in shorts, or a bikini, or, God forbid, naked? Oh, look out, the complex rears it’s ugly head, and my self esteem goes right out the fucking window. All I see are my flaws. My belly, but butt, my thighs, my frickin’ knees? They all look fat to me. Then I notice the gray hair. Then I see the dark circles, and the lines, and my skin is dry, and my teeth aren’t straight, and …
Do you see how that is just one big snowball effect? It’s a good thing I like food, or I would probably be anorexic. I feel for the girls who have that condition. I understand how it can happen – all the skinny models and photoshopped cover girls with huge fake boobs (they photoshop the scars too!) making all of us look bad? Those women on magazine covers are what men think women should look like. Because their stupid penises don’t have the mental capacity to say, “That woman does not look like that in real life. That is not normal. My girlfried/wife/that-lady-over-there IS real and she is hot. I wish to have sex with someone like her.” So girls who are taught that fat is bad end up worrying. They end up worrying too much. I’ve considered the starving, actually. But, fortunately I know the weight would just come back once I started eating again, and I also know that it is bad for you. So I don’t.
I asked Mr. this morning if I was fat. He said no. I didn’t believe him. That is wrong. I told him to not lie. He stood his ground. I suppose that is the right answer for him to give. Imagine if he would have said, “Well, um, now that you mention it, I have notices that you have gained a little bit of weight.” I think we can all say that he would be receiving the silent treatment for at least a day.
Even though all I hear, every time I put on a pair of jeans, is that one time someone said “Anything bigger than a size six is too big!”
Fortunately for me, my family has mostly layed off of me, only because my SIL is the new target of their fat dissatisfaction. (“That baby weight ISN’T going away! MUAHAHAHAHA!”) My mother really seems to get some sort of joy out of it. It’s kind of sick. It actually pisses me off. But mother knows best, right?
That’s why her thirty year old daughter still feels like a young awkward girl going through puberty and only wants to have sex with the lights off.
Thanks for that.