Most women I know love to shop; a mall like the one in my
city usually makes them swoon. And with
good reason…we have major retailers, exclusive boutiques and specialty shops
found only in the largest metropolitan areas like New York, Chicago or
Miami. But me? There’s little else I dislike as much as
shopping, especially for clothes. I lack
the patience it takes to try on item after item, and I find the lighting in
most fitting rooms humiliatingly brutal.
The inconsistency in sizing from brand to brand is equally annoying; I
have clothes that fit exactly the same but are labeled in four different
sizes.
I blame a lifetime of body issues for most of my shopping
angst. You see, I grew up rather…well…chubby.
Don’t believe me? Check out my
kindergarten picture:
 | |
| The hair cut didn't help. Framing a round face like that was just cruel. |
Yep, that’s me…up there in the last row, third from the right, in the purple
dress. See the round face? Still have that. My dad called me “pleasingly plump.” I’ll never understand what was pleasing about
it, but plump I was. My dislike of shopping
must have started back then; I was forced into the large girls section of Sears
and needed my first bra in third grade. It’s
not like I was over-fed, either; meals were healthy, and while we had to clean
our plates or eat the offensive food for breakfast, portion sizes were
reasonable. Vegetables were served at
every dinner, and fruit was often served for dessert.
I was just born of
sturdy stock; I’m Sicilian, Irish and German.
And ok, we never met a pasta or bread we didn’t like. The art of baking is innate in our women, and
we have chocolate in the house at all times.
Things hadn’t improved by middle school; at 5’5”, I was
always taller and weighed more than any of my friends. Coupled with large ugly glasses and a
frightful version of the Dorothy Hamill haircut…well, I was a hot mess. I don’t remember most of my outfits from that
time, but pictures show rather drab and unattractive ensembles best left in the
annals of cheap glossy yearbook pages.
The passing of time and the natural order of the life cycle
dealt me a few good hands into high school.
Though I never grew any taller than I was in fifth grade, I was always
an avid bike rider and participated in some physical endeavors for which I was
completely inept. The increased overall
activity helped me slim down to a manageable size, and finally I could think
about shopping at stores the cool girls frequented like Kay Baum and The
Limited. It was a grand day when I could
borrow my best friend’s super-stylish Brittanica jeans; prior to that, swapping
outfits was never an option for me -- not that anyone would have wanted my
clothes anyway! Still, I was aware that
the girls boys wanted to “go with” and feel up were usually rail thin,
flat-stomached (and chested!) and had skinny bird legs.
I’ve never had a flat
stomach. Today, after two c-sections and the bonus hysterectomy that required a
third abdominal surgery, I don’t see a flat stomach as ever being remotely
possible without an expensive and painful tummy tuck. And my thighs? Though powerfully muscular, they could never
have been compared to any bird I’ve ever seen.
By senior year, I had developed a better sense of style,
guided mainly by the Preppy Handbook and replete with whales, pink and green
sweaters and the requisite Bermuda bag with interchangeable covers. I had lost significant weight the summer
before the school year started – albeit by alternately starving myself for
weeks or barfing up whatever I allowed myself to eat. The number on the scale was lower than I ever
recall seeing before that time (or, frankly, since), and I maintained it until
sometime in college. My girlfriend and I
would monitor our weight by the fit of my favorite Calvin Klein jeans. As soon as they became snug…we were on a
diet.
 |
| Flag captain! Yes, I was a band geek...because THAT was going to help self-esteem...sigh. |
Looking at pictures now, I am horrified that I judged myself
so harshly and felt so badly about myself.
By today’s standards, I was average sized, and my first-day-of-school
picture senior year shows a girl clearly pale, gaunt and hungry.
I still thought I was
too fat. I continued to make myself
throw up whenever I “needed” to lose a few pounds. This was around the time Oprah wheeled out
her infamous wagon o’ fat and published a cookbook of diet recipes. Thin was in, and I was fully aware of my
weight all through college.
By the time I found my first full-time teaching job, I
finally felt mostly satisfied with who I was and what I looked like. I exercised routinely, spending up to an hour
or more a day on a stair climber, working out to fitness shows, or simply
walking and biking. For about two weeks,
I achieved the monumental milestone of becoming a size six. That I even claim that as significant shows
how hung up I was about my weight. Even
then, my wardrobe choices often included pieces that hid my stomach area with long
tunic tops and sweaters or flowy dresses. I hated for my husband to touch me around my
waist.
 | |
| My sisters and I, 1994. The only thing bigger than my glasses was my face. |
Impending motherhood didn’t help. I’m not proud to admit
that my initial thoughts after finding out I was pregnant the first time were
about gaining weight…getting fat…looking unattractive. I distinctly remember coming home after one
horrifying doctor visit where I had gained three pounds in a month. I burst out into agonizing sobs as I
explained to my husband what had happened, and he just gaped at me in disbelief. Seeing images of me during either pregnancy
is painful, and for many years after having my girls I refused to be
photographed if at all possible.
You cannot understand
what it’s like if you’ve never been overweight. Every time I walk into a room,
I start scanning to see how I size up (excuse the pun) to the rest of the
women. The anxiety sometimes sends me face
deep into a carton of ice cream…
Today, I’m the closest to pre-baby weight that I’ve been
since I became a mother. I’m in better
physical shape and stronger than I’ve ever been in my life. At 46, I’ve achieved fitness goals that 16
couldn’t conceive of, 26 didn’t dream of and 36 could have cared less about. And still I wonder if I’ll ever get to a place
that I won’t worry about my size. I
wonder if I’ll ever pass a mirror without both instinctively looking to see how
I appear and then quickly looking away so I don’t have to find out. I can’t imagine letting a day go by without
getting on a scale to track a number that means nothing to anyone but me.
 |
| Today...mostly ok with who I am. But those cheeks? Sigh...stuck for life. |
I see the history of my life in stretch marks and cellulite
and fight not to determine any portion my value based on that.
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