My body is a moving object.
Sunday, December 5, 2010 at 4:40PM I was eleven when my brother started kindergarten. My mother volunteered for some class activity and when I got home from school that day, she was crying. I asked if she was okay and she explained that she heard one of my brother's classmates say, "Wow, Ken, your mom is FAT!" Even now, nearly twenty-five years later, that memory stings enough to bring tears to my eyes. I remember my mom telling me this was why I had to lose weight: she didn't want me to go through the same things she had to go through.
But I gained weight, and gained weight. My weight steadily grew until I had gastric bypass surgery at the age of 28. And then my weight dropped. I went from hating my body to being bewildered by it. This is what I looked like with less fat? There were hip bones under there? I had a collarbone that could show itself? What would I look like if I didn't have all this excess skin now? Why had I let myself irreparably damage my body by getting so fat that my skin wouldn't shrink back? So then, at 30, I had plastic surgery and had some parts nipped and tucked, and that helped - but then weight slowly crept back on over the next four years. And then I got pregnant and gained only 10 pounds in those 40 weeks. Then I gave birth and, in the following six months, lost the 10 pregnancy pounds plus another twenty-five without really trying (I thank the thyroid medication I'm on).
But what this means in reality is that my body is a moving object. I can't put a finger on it because it won't stay still. Its shape won't stay. I have absolutely no reference point for what my body's "norm" is. Since giving birth, my hips have gotten (seemingly permanently) wider but my already reduced and lifted breasts have gotten a bit smaller (no complaints about that).
So what's happened? I no longer think about myself as any body type. When I was fat, I identified as fat. When I was thin, I identified as a former fattie. It was a part of who I am that I knew I couldn't shake. Now? Now I cognitively recognize that I am overweight (technically obese) but I don't feel like it. It's like my mind has simply given up trying to categorize the body that carries it around. It's been quite freeing; I feel better about my body now than I did at some points when I weighed 35 pounds less than I do now (near my lowest adult weight).
So I was snapped out of a seeming fog when at a deli the other day, as I was buying a soda, a bag of pretzels, a candy bar, and a pack of gum, the cashier asked me, "Is that all for you or is someone else in the car?"
Immediately I was seven years old again, being told I looked like a fat lollipop in my new dress. I was nine years old, being told I shouldn't tuck my shirt in because fat people don't look good when they do that. I was eleven, watching my mother cry about hearing a five year old say she was fat. I was fourteen with spitballs in my hair and tacks on my chair. I was seventeen, wondering if anyone would ever be generous enough to love me despite my appearance. I was nineteen, being called, "FATTIE!" by a passing car of guys in front of my friends. I came rushing back into myself, filling up the body that I can't even get a hold of anymore.
And then? I lied. "Yes," I said, "My husband is in the car."
Why did I do that? I can eat a damn bag of chips and candy bar if I want to. Instead of instantly feeling ashamed, I should have been pissed off that this guy felt he had the right to ask me that. But all it takes is one question to make me feel like I gained a hundred pounds in an instant, like I went from the real Gwyneth Paltrow to the Fat Suit Gwyneth in Shallow Hal. It's those moments that I realize my growth hasn't been as full as it sometimes seems.
Tori Amos used to sell t-shirts that said "Recovering Catholic". I should have a "Recovering Fattie" shirt, even though I'd never wear it and most people wouldn't understand how someone still fat could be a recovering fattie. But that's how I feel.
And, so, here I am and here's my body. I don't know exactly how to describe it, but I do finally feel like I own it, even when a short question sends me reeling.
These two things, however, I do know:
1. I like who I am and that will never again be dependent upon my body size.
2. That deli has lost my business.
Reader Comments (3)
Oh my god, I am so sorry that the cashier at the deli is an ass.
And I am happy that you like you. I know it took a long time for me to like me.
I identify so strongly with this post. I can't even tell you.
I think it's interesting that you found acceptance for your body after having a baby. I had exactly the same thing happen to me. It's like once I saw what my body can do, whether or not I looked good in a bikini didn't seem as important. I wonder if that is a common experience?
That guy was a total jerk. I really don't understand why people feel the need to say things that hurt people...I really think it's a power thing that makes them feel better about themselves. I am so happy you like yourself now. It is who we are inside that is important, not what society had deemed beautiful or acceptable. You have what those other people like that jerk don't have and that is self acceptance...if he had it, he wouldn't have behaved in such a rude manner. Inner beauty is what brings us peace, and really that is what counts. This is a very moving post. I felt like crying while reading it and it makes me want to go tell that man a thing or two! I also think giving birth gives us an acceptance and allows us a freedom we didn't have before. I am so full of scars all over from birthing and nursing babies, and you know what I don't see those scars as one bit ugly, in fact (secretly, as I don't show off those body parts!) I am quite proud of them.