No I’m Not, I Just Look It

How is it that despite our enlightenment, modern women can still be slayed by one insensitive, ill-thought comment? 

I was at my children’s school the other evening, for the annual Family Fair event.   Games, penny sales, cake raffles, lots of children running around, teachers, parents, grandparents and friends connecting and reconnecting.    A dear friend and I sat and talked for an hour, having a wonderful time catching up and giving each other moral support in our quest to be mothers in the modern world.  Our sons are best friends, and the unique bond she and I share is deep and meaningful.  She is a woman I think of when I look for inspiration and determination.   I treasure the conversation we had, she’s a very special woman, and we parted with the promise of going out for a girls-only coffee date.  

Sitting at one of the long tables in the gymnasium, watching the hustle and bustle going on around me, I concentrated on being quiet inside and reflected on the good things that have happened lately, in spite of  the adjustments that continue to need attention as my husband and I forge our couple-ness and try to blend into a family without making too much of a mess.   With echoes of my sweetheart’s tender words from our afternoon lingering in my heart, the evening wore on, and the time came for me to search out my kids and head home.    Mrs. Dana, a teacher who had taught my daughter in kindergarten, was clearing off the tables.  She & I have known each other for as long as my children have attended school, and although we don’t socialize, we’ve developed a friendship and have been each other’s champion in the face of our triumphs and struggles through the years.    We made small talk as she threw plates and pop cans into a garbage bag; I rose to leave, gathering up the kids’ backpacks & lunch boxes.  Mrs. Dana frowned and looked at me with a mild look of alarm.

“Are you pregnant?” she said, her nose wrinkling up as she said the word “pregnant”.   

I’m not very swift at coming up with witty replies when things like this happen to me, and I’m too self-conscious to be able to think of something equally stinging to retort with.  All I managed was a very fast, barely noticeable headshake and a quiet “No” with a smile, hoping no one else overheard her asking me such an embarrassing question.  I walked away and kept on walking as I heard her stammer a feeble “Sorry, but your coat…the way your coat….”  Too late, I thought to myself, the damage is done.  Not only have I been feeling  like a blimp lately, but now it’s been publicly pointed out.   Her comment was like a hammer to my heart.

No, I am not pregnant.   But the fact that my body looks like I’m pregnant does not make me feel very good.  Not because I WANT to be pregnant, oh no, my childbearing years are over.  It doesn’t make me feel very good to know I look pregnant when I’m not because that means I MUST REALLY LOOK FAT!  I held my tears until I got home (the kids’ excitement at having had so much fun at the fair was a welcome distraction).   Finally at home, in my kitchen, I  began to frantically make banana bread.  I needed to do something quick before my self-esteem ran out of me into a puddle on the floor.  And the bananas were there, ripening before my eyes.   So I’m standing at the kitchen counter, measuring flour and stuff  when my husband comes to hug me, asking me how the Family Fair went.  “Fine”, I said, “until someone asked if I was pregnant.” 

There, in the safety of his strong arms, my face smushed into his chest,  I sobbed quietly.  And with each sob, he stroked my head and held me close, each of his consoling “Hush, now” speaking to my heart, telling me that no matter what anyone says, I’m his beautiful girl and that’s all that matters.  And he’s part right.  What matters is what he feels for me, but also what matters is what I feel for myself. 

Eleanor Roosevelt said:  “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”   Add fat to that inferiority complex.   Even though I wish I was a Beatrix Potter, or a Marie Curie, or a Sacajawea, I am a modern woman living in modern times where women struggle with their weight and appearance from the time they’re 10 when they notice that their thighs jiggle (why doesn’t anybody tell us that thighs are SUPPOSED to jiggle?).   I was a typical, shy, awkward young girl dealing with a secret she eventually told.  I grew into a shy, awkward young woman with no fashion sense to go along with that low self-esteem who did her best at building a life like she thought she should.    Three years after having my children, I topped the scales at my heaviest post-baby weight, and had lived for years in a survival mode of not feeling too dang much emotionally. 

Many moons ago, an unkind observation was made on my appearance by someone very close to my heart.  I had not realized how sensitive I can be to others’ unintentional comments until now, as I write and reflect on this whole thing.  And I’m amazed at how I let myself be affected.  Eleanor is right, I need to stop giving consent to others making me feel bad.   In any case, with this remark all those years ago, a realization came to me that I had to take better care of myself, if only for my children’s sake.   Deep down, I wanted to be loved for me, no matter what my body looked like, but somehow there are crossed wires inside that (still) fool me into thinking I am nothing  if I am not thin. 

And so I began to lose weight, losing a significant amount over a period of 7 or 8 months, transforming myself into someone I had a hard time getting used to when I looked in the mirror.  Who is that girl?   Sometimes I would smile when I asked that question, sometimes I’d frown in bewilderment.  I went from years of not feeling, to a period of time when I had to acknowledge alot of issues and serious matters in my life.    In those seven or eight months, I was losing more than weight:  my father passed away, I was going through a separation, then my mother passed away.   The day after my mother died, I began a sporadic cycle of bingeing and purging that lasted about four years.   Weight loss, weight gain…..it has nothing to do with eating or excercise.  It’s all about your psyche. 

The woman I was when I was at a normal, healthy weight was actually hurting more inside, probably because she was dealing with all those repressed emotions in her life but felt them to be too much and tried to swing the pendulum a little with bingeing and purging as a way to bring comfort and relief.   At least that’s what I tell myself.   

But a funny thing happened on my way to Skinnyville:  I became visible to others, whereas before I went about my business, relatively unnoticed.  Now, people where I worked knew my name and sought me out.  I didn’t know most of these people, but suddenly, they knew me.   Men I could understand, but women who wouldn’t have given me the time of day before were now seeking to get to know me.  People were nicer.  All because I was thinner.   I became That Woman Who Lost All That Weight. 

Last summer, I got tired of the near-obsession I had maintained in order to keep my weight down.  And I found myself going off the rails a little.  The pounds started piling on.  At least I wasn’t bingeing and purging anymore, right?    But I could feel myself expanding.  By the fall, I couldn’t fit into any of my jeans.  By winter, I was down to three skirts &  a few sweaters for work, and two pairs of yoga pants to wear on my down time.   I had made an attempt before Easter to curb the appetite enthusiasm a little, because at the rate I was going,  I couldn’t zip up my winter jacket, and could barely button my long winter coat.    I’m dreading spring and don’t dare think of summer.  I go to work now, humiliated at being the fat girl again, at having everyone be a witness to yet another of my failures.   I avoid looking in the mirror when I dress, I wince if I happen to catch my reflection; I can’t cross my legs like I did; I feel body parts jiggle when I walk where they had not jiggled for a while.      

I see people look at me differently now, I see their eyes asking:  “How can you let yourself go like that?”.  I hear their voices boldly asking  ”Are you pregnant?” .   I know how pathetic and insecure it is, after 42 years of being here, to be placing so much of my personal worth on how big or small my body is.   I also know how this latest weight gain is a symptom of things I can’ t deal with.  High sensitivity to other people and what they feel and think of me affects me more than the average bear.  Couple that with a lifetime of feeling unworthy and inferior and you get the idea.  Not that I want to feel superior to anyone, I just want to feel good about me in my body no matter what size I am.  And to find my purpose in life, and to know that my passions and my drive to achieve something, to create something, is not dependent on my body size.    

It’s not a good feeling to be ashamed of how you look, and it’s even worse to admit that how you look even matters.  I think of myself as an intellectual person, and I’m smart enough to know that your body size means dick all.  In each person I meet, I try to see beyond size, bad breath, differing opinions, or whatever else is different from me in that person.  So why can’t I see that other people are probably giving me the benefit of the doubt as well? 

Because I can’t cut myself any slack.  It’s much easier to see the beauty in others than it is to see it in yourself. 

Later that night, after the Great Banana Bread Bakeoff, I lay in bed with Mr. C.   He reminded me that he fell in love with my mind way before he actually met me in person.  And hadn’t I done the same?   I don’t know how he does it, but he manages to become a mirror, reflecting back what’s essential for me to see in myself.   Going from years of not feeling to feeling too much, maybe this is a time where I will find balance and wisdom. 

Maybe this is the time of my life.     

Love, 

Chantal xoxoxo