The first time I thought about my body critically was in high school. I remember once avoiding family dinner and eating a few saltine crackers instead while running on the treadmill, more out of curiosity than anything else. I'd examine how my thighs looked in shorts during the summer. This was all child's play compared to college, where there were endless buffets and the freshman fifteen on one end, and girls who thought it was normal to eat one small bowl of pasta for the entire day on the other. I gained weight in college, lost it in early medical school, gained it back again, and became increasingly obsessed with body image. I'd perpetually want to lose weight, but not be able to. I'd eat celery and carrot sticks in public, but gorge on cartons of ice cream in private, then exercise in the gym for hours. I was increasingly better educated about what constituted a healthy diet, but unable to control how I actually ate. I stalked blogs of people who'd lost a hundred pounds or ran marathons. I refused to buy bigger clothing and instead wore stretchy black pants and other clothes I really didn't like. Food, body image, weight--it all became an unhealthy, unbalanced, private inner obsession.
My third year of medical school, I stopped living in dorms for the first time and moved into an apartment with a friend. She ate good stuff and bad stuff, in moderation. She believed in colorful meals. She exercised moderately but consistently. And she did it all in public, and I got embraced in all that, and gradually I thought less about food and more about meals. I thought less about precisely how many calories I was burning off on a machine and more about working up a sweat jogging or walking outside together. In the middle of all this, while I was still on the heavier side, I met Dave, who told me the second time he laid eyes on me that he wanted to date me. Who said during our first date, "I'm glad you're not super-super skinny," and managed to make that sound like a compliment.
Gradually, I equilibrated into what felt like a healthier weight, closer to what I had weighed in high school. Then surgical internship hit, and the stress and lack of time to eat anything but energy bars stuffed into white coat pockets took the issue entirely out of my mind. I kept shrinking and never gained much back even after finishing residency.
Then three pregnancies happened, and for the next six years I gained thirty pounds one year and lost thirty-two the next, trailing my way through four clothing sizes and four bra cup sizes. I think: eight years ago, all that really would have thrown me for a loop. Now, it all is just part of life. Here I am, losing over thirty pounds for the third time. I get to be voluptuous, I get to be stick-straight. My husband doesn't mind, my kids don't care. I'd prefer not to have to keep reorganizing my closet (and I think major celebration is in order the day I stop having to), but other than that, it's all more okay than I ever would have thought it could be.
I think of Ellie, and of how the road to a healthy body image for a woman in our times is littered with pitfalls. Right now she likes her body because it's hers; she is beautiful because she believes she is. But one day she will notice magazine covers and ads. She will hear that being skinny matters more than being healthy, that looks can make up for character. She will enter a world where, for better or worse, she'll be judged by her appearance, and it makes me hope we can give her somewhere to start: the assurance that we will never judge her by her appearance. A healthy concept of food, as something interesting and enjoyable but not a source of control or escape. A palate for the types of food that are good for her body. Delight in dressing herself. A habit of being physically active; a sport she enjoys being good at. An awareness of wrong messages that the world might be sending. In the end, her habits and attitudes will probably reflect whatever mine are, so I suppose reflecting on and being intentional about this myself is a good place to start.
My third year of medical school, I stopped living in dorms for the first time and moved into an apartment with a friend. She ate good stuff and bad stuff, in moderation. She believed in colorful meals. She exercised moderately but consistently. And she did it all in public, and I got embraced in all that, and gradually I thought less about food and more about meals. I thought less about precisely how many calories I was burning off on a machine and more about working up a sweat jogging or walking outside together. In the middle of all this, while I was still on the heavier side, I met Dave, who told me the second time he laid eyes on me that he wanted to date me. Who said during our first date, "I'm glad you're not super-super skinny," and managed to make that sound like a compliment.
Gradually, I equilibrated into what felt like a healthier weight, closer to what I had weighed in high school. Then surgical internship hit, and the stress and lack of time to eat anything but energy bars stuffed into white coat pockets took the issue entirely out of my mind. I kept shrinking and never gained much back even after finishing residency.
Then three pregnancies happened, and for the next six years I gained thirty pounds one year and lost thirty-two the next, trailing my way through four clothing sizes and four bra cup sizes. I think: eight years ago, all that really would have thrown me for a loop. Now, it all is just part of life. Here I am, losing over thirty pounds for the third time. I get to be voluptuous, I get to be stick-straight. My husband doesn't mind, my kids don't care. I'd prefer not to have to keep reorganizing my closet (and I think major celebration is in order the day I stop having to), but other than that, it's all more okay than I ever would have thought it could be.
I think of Ellie, and of how the road to a healthy body image for a woman in our times is littered with pitfalls. Right now she likes her body because it's hers; she is beautiful because she believes she is. But one day she will notice magazine covers and ads. She will hear that being skinny matters more than being healthy, that looks can make up for character. She will enter a world where, for better or worse, she'll be judged by her appearance, and it makes me hope we can give her somewhere to start: the assurance that we will never judge her by her appearance. A healthy concept of food, as something interesting and enjoyable but not a source of control or escape. A palate for the types of food that are good for her body. Delight in dressing herself. A habit of being physically active; a sport she enjoys being good at. An awareness of wrong messages that the world might be sending. In the end, her habits and attitudes will probably reflect whatever mine are, so I suppose reflecting on and being intentional about this myself is a good place to start.
No comments:
Post a Comment