I’ve been thinking about body image a lot in the past few weeks. It seems to be a recurring theme in my life right now. I used to convince myself that I didn’t care, that I was who I was and I couldn’t change genetics, that there were so many better things to do with my time I didn’t want to spend it obsessing about myself. The truth is, I very much cared then and care now and spent a large part of my time mentally running away from my body.
Genetics did play a huge part. I weighed 180+ lbs, was 5’8”, had a 38D chest, and wore a women’s 12-14 the fall I started 6th grade. I looked like a full-grown woman before most of my friends had started puberty. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn't look like anyone I knew and definitely not like anyone in Seventeen. I was so Other that I ignored it. I had always been good at academics, been amongst the top in every test and could do quite well with relatively little effort, but this year was the first I remembered actually focusing on it. I would obviously never be successful in any attempt at popularity because a) Esprit didn’t make anything in my size and b) I stood out in all the wrong ways. Also, my brief foray into acting didn’t turn out so well. So I focused on the one thing I could be successful at. It is the first year I remember being referred to as The Walking Encyclopedia, a title I sardonically embraced.
It really didn’t get much better in junior high or high school. I did very well in school, I had friends, my parents were loving and supportive, but my body didn’t change and my refusal to deal with it didn’t help. Food was a consolation and I steadily gained weight. I still remember the ugly reality of surreptitiously standing on the scale in the girl’s locker room in 9th grade and watching the dial climb to 198. I was almost 200lbs. That was how much my 6'0" father weighed. I couldn't deal with that kind of information, so I retreated further into my mental world where it was more important that I was number 1 in my history class than what I looked like in the mirror.
College was a little better. I actually lost weight because of all the walking and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like bursting into tears after shopping for clothes. I still remember justifying over-spending at Old Navy because I could actually wear their size 16 jeans. I went on a study abroad to London my Junior year and between my room at the top of 6 flights of stairs, the walking, my preferring to spend money on things rather than food, and an upper respiratory infection that lasted for two weeks, I shrunk to a size 12. It was elating. I was giving away clothes to girls who were larger than I was. That had never happened to me before.
I had thought, being in my late 20s, that I would be through with all this heartache over size. I have been eating better, healthier. I occasionally go to the gym. I’m slowly moving toward my goal weight. But this weekend the angst of the past 15 years came to a head, I went to see my roommate in a fashion show. And paraded before me, in one of the largest disconnects of modern American society, was a stream of size 2-6 models wearing the latest in adolescent fashion. In one of the write-ups the shops had provided as a running commentary, it boasted that it carried sizes 0-18 and XS to XXL. Considering that the majority of Americans range in the L-XL categories, it is no wonder so many girls have eating disorders. This size is still the exception to the fashion rule. Fashion needs to catch up.
Genetics did play a huge part. I weighed 180+ lbs, was 5’8”, had a 38D chest, and wore a women’s 12-14 the fall I started 6th grade. I looked like a full-grown woman before most of my friends had started puberty. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn't look like anyone I knew and definitely not like anyone in Seventeen. I was so Other that I ignored it. I had always been good at academics, been amongst the top in every test and could do quite well with relatively little effort, but this year was the first I remembered actually focusing on it. I would obviously never be successful in any attempt at popularity because a) Esprit didn’t make anything in my size and b) I stood out in all the wrong ways. Also, my brief foray into acting didn’t turn out so well. So I focused on the one thing I could be successful at. It is the first year I remember being referred to as The Walking Encyclopedia, a title I sardonically embraced.
It really didn’t get much better in junior high or high school. I did very well in school, I had friends, my parents were loving and supportive, but my body didn’t change and my refusal to deal with it didn’t help. Food was a consolation and I steadily gained weight. I still remember the ugly reality of surreptitiously standing on the scale in the girl’s locker room in 9th grade and watching the dial climb to 198. I was almost 200lbs. That was how much my 6'0" father weighed. I couldn't deal with that kind of information, so I retreated further into my mental world where it was more important that I was number 1 in my history class than what I looked like in the mirror.
College was a little better. I actually lost weight because of all the walking and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like bursting into tears after shopping for clothes. I still remember justifying over-spending at Old Navy because I could actually wear their size 16 jeans. I went on a study abroad to London my Junior year and between my room at the top of 6 flights of stairs, the walking, my preferring to spend money on things rather than food, and an upper respiratory infection that lasted for two weeks, I shrunk to a size 12. It was elating. I was giving away clothes to girls who were larger than I was. That had never happened to me before.
I had thought, being in my late 20s, that I would be through with all this heartache over size. I have been eating better, healthier. I occasionally go to the gym. I’m slowly moving toward my goal weight. But this weekend the angst of the past 15 years came to a head, I went to see my roommate in a fashion show. And paraded before me, in one of the largest disconnects of modern American society, was a stream of size 2-6 models wearing the latest in adolescent fashion. In one of the write-ups the shops had provided as a running commentary, it boasted that it carried sizes 0-18 and XS to XXL. Considering that the majority of Americans range in the L-XL categories, it is no wonder so many girls have eating disorders. This size is still the exception to the fashion rule. Fashion needs to catch up.
Shopping after the show wasn’t fun. Shopping is still a prickly experience for me. Most of the time I can do it without recalling the tears and the panic and the desperation of those adolescent afternoons spent in a Maurices dressing room. Saturday was different. In most stores I went into, I felt vaguely claustrophobic. Even chains I usually have no problem with, like GAP didn’t feel comfortable. And there are stores I just don’t venture into, mostly because they don’t fit my aesthetic, but also because I just don’t feel like I belong in them. And sadly, just walking into Buckle with Miss Parker, so she could find a pair of jeans that fit, made me want to burst into tears. I had to get out. I couldn’t spend time in a store that didn’t even carry my size. So I wandered around the Provo Towne Center until I could control it. My question is, does this ever end? Will there ever be a time when I’m completely comfortable in my own skin, when the pain of the past doesn’t overthrow the present? Will I ever not be discouraged by the fact I am not and never will be a size 6? Will I ever be able to stop holding myself to a false idea of perfection? And is the fact that I'm actually recognizing and confronting this issue a positive step?
