Well fuck. Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck. For the people in the back: FUCK. And fuck. That said, I'm gonna write about body image today.
I have always had a little belly. Always always, even at my absolute fittest or teenage growth-spurth gangliest. A flat stomach is clearly not a move in my genetic playbook, but it never stopped me from coveting one. For as long as I can remember, and my memory goes back pretty far, I was aware that a flat stomach was part of the Western beauty ideal, and as long as I had belly fat, I shouldn't be happy with my body. Everyone can read that sentence and tell you exactly how messed up it is, but reading it and rationally knowing it and overcoming decades of ingrained self-hatred are not things that easily jibe. Though I'm feeling much more at peace with myself overall since I wrote this entry, I realized the other day that I have never once looked at my body--not once, except during pregnancy (I'll get back to that)--without wishing my belly away. It's automatic. Just unpack that for a second, that loathing a part of my own self is like breathing to me. Not only that, but it makes me normal. Most women are like this with some part of their body. That is some seriously harmful and insidious messaging, you think?
I grew up reading magazines, from Seventeen to Shape, and to a one, there were always articles about "problem" areas and how to fix them or at least to dress for them and I am finally, finally at the point where I can see this shit for what it is and say to myself, as long as a body part is working, how is it a problem? It took me for-EV-ver to catch on that the problem isn't me at all, and I'm working really hard to implement this mindset, as well as model it for my kid.
What brought this to mind was a picture I shared on social media of my friend and me when we were 12. We were in bathing suits, getting ready to get into a pool. I was seated at the edge, and the picture was taken from the side - I was slightly hunched so whatever rolls I had at the time were bunched up in my midsection. As a grown woman I look at this picture and think it is beautiful, such a time capsule, such a frozen image of youth and innocence and we were just perfect. I wasn't overweight by a long shot, but even if I were I could look at it with clear adult appreciation and wish for those girls that the world was different because I know for a fact that as soon as I saw that picture in real time--and it would have been a long time after it was taken, because this was the olden tymes--I was mortified by my body. If we had digital cameras or phones back then I would have instantly deleted, and what a shame that would have been. I share it happily now, proudly.
Pictures of my present self are slightly more complicated. I'm trying, really trying, to change my mindset with regard to my flesh. I don't know if I'll ever get to the point where I can love my belly or think it's cute or whatever, but I'm working to be, at the very least, indifferent about it in small ways. It's really hard to not automatically pull my shirt down to cover my midsection when I come up from downward dog, and I catch myself sucking in for no reason more than you can imagine over the course of a day. It's work, and I'm doing it. Whatever my mental block is, it hasn't stopped me from wearing two-piece bathing suits for the past decade, because for one I think they're actually more comfortable. I never wore them when I was younger and my belly was less prominent, which would have been more socially acceptable I guess? If nothing else, in my experience, getting older has helped me to care less about external validation. All the judging I care about is that gavel-banging bitch in my own head and it's well past retirement age for her.
The irony is not lost on me that, as I mentioned earlier, I loved my belly without reservation when there was a lil baby growing in thar. Home of my one longed for child, the part that helped protect and nourish my precious pixie punk offspring, the second he was out I was all, "OK belly, time's up" and went back to my self-acceptance stumbling block.
I'm getting there, I really think I am, now that I have isolated this behavior I've been in lifelong denial about, but more than anything now I'm resentful as hell for all the millions of hours I've wasted in stubborn defiance of reality, robbing myself of happiness, because I bought into this message of unattainable physical perfection, not to mention the focus it takes from what is really important and that is NOT my appearance. I have so much work to do on the inside as a person, as well as to do as a citizen of Planet Dumpsterfire (see: the FUCK prologue to this entry).
I'm never not going to be vain or to try and be fit and healthy, but I do think that I am capable of unlearning old ways of thinking. It's not too late. I am also hopeful that it's within our power to influence the current generation of minds before this all sets in motion, but we'll see.
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