This month’s challege is to “embrace the mistakes, love the ugly bits.”
You are looking at my legs: chunky, sturdy, burdened with fat. They are scarred, dimpled with cellulite, and generally under-appreciated.
For many years I hated my body, especially my legs. When I was in 9th grade, I had a severe crush on a 12th grader. I was friends with his brother, an 11th grader, and confided this. This “friend’s” response was blunt: “My brother thinks you have a fat ass.” (And still I hung out with this guy!) Prior to that comment I had not felt consciously bad about my body. I had not dieted, nor had I fallen into obsession with weight. That comment literally changed everything. I spent the rest of my high school years feeling as though I had buttocks that were grotesquely large. I hated my curves. I wanted longer legs. And you know how much I weighed? Throughout high school I was 5 feet 2 inches and weighed at most 125 pounds. In my junior and senior year I dieted severely and began running and using laxitives. Sometimes I would binge on cookies and Snickers. My weight was as low as 118, and I continued to think that I was fat. I wanted to weigh 110. I never made it.
In my twenties my weight climbed, first to 130 until I was about 22, after which I reached 160 pounds. The summer I turned 25, I decided to try the rotation diet (not a bad diet if you can stick with it and use it properly). I also began running daily, up to three hours a day, because I was incapable of moderation. In a period of 12 weeks, I lost 25 pounds (my goal was to get to 125). I looked great. I felt great. I found a boyfriend. And then one day, I fainted in a mall. The doctor tested and found me anemic. His advice? “Eat more meat.” That was it. And my boyfriend, eager to take care of me, began feeding me huge weekend breakfasts. I didn’t own a car at this time and walked a lot, so the weight mostly stayed off for a couple of years.
When I moved to Austin, my weight crept up to 160 again and stayed there. This was okay by me. I worked out in a gym. I was flexible and strong. I wore size 14 jeans. I felt pretty good about myself. Then an elderly man who’d become a friend in a grandfatherly sort of way one day told me (after he’d had me as a guest for dinner), “You know, Kathryn, you’re pretty. If you lost 20 to 30 pounds, you might find a boyfriend.” If he’d punched my stomach, the effect would have felt the same. I was hurt and angry. I told him so. He apologized, but the wound remained. And his comment keyed into my fear that maybe it was true, that I would never meet a man who would want me whom I would also want — all because of my big fat ass.
At the end of my graduate program, I was talking with my advisor on the steps of a campus building. He was an older fellow, perhaps in his late 50s or early 60s. I had admired and liked him. For some reason, he felt compelled to suggest that I try whatever the fad diet that year was (I think it was Atkins Metabolife). He’d done it and he felt great! I was so pretty; I’d be even prettier if I were just a bit thinner… I was galled by his suggestion. It didn’t hurt as much because I was getting to a point of accepting myself more. I still found it insulting.
At another event I ran into a man I was acquainted with from a church I’d since left; he too was in his late 50s. His first words: “You look great. Have you lost weight? You look like it.” (I hadn’t lost weight.) I wanted to reply with, “Actually, no, I haven’t lost weight. I’m as fat as ever, thank you very much.” What was with these men?!
In 2000, my weight soared to over 200 pounds. This happened shortly after I met my husband. (He, by the way, loves me as I am. He wants me to be healthy and happy with my body, regardless of the number on the scale.) I dined out more often, ate larger portions, and drank more wine. I also stopped exercising. My husband is not very active, and being around him connected me with my inner couch potato. I’m not blaming him! I’m simply noting that I have a streak of laziness in me that proximity to another sedentary person had activated. It’s my responsibility to take care of my body. In the past couple of years I’ve made effort to work out more and lose weight; I’ve had limited success. Part of it may be aging — my metabolism is getting slower. Recently joining a gym has helped. I’ve enjoyed the variety of machines.
In 2003, the evening before Thanksgiving, I took a walk in my Austin neighborhood. I was thinking about my clients and my private practice when a pickup truck pulled up to the stop sign nearby, and a male voice yelled, “Only a husband could love those hips! What a fat ass!” Then they turned the corner, their hoots of laughter fading. I was the victim of a drive-by insult. And yes, that hurt.
We live in a fat-hating world. Women hate fat. They hate themselves. I went to the beach with some friends in 2000. I was at my heaviest, but I was okay with it. After all, I was with my girlfriends. Why not wear a swimsuit and have some fun? One friend who weighed only 116 pounds would not take off her shorts, because she was ashamed of her “fat legs,” even around three of her close women friends. How sad. When I commented that I weighed almost twice as much as she did, they all protested, saying, “You’re not fat!” O fercrissakes, quit lying to my face. Wait, you’re right: I’m not fat, I’m obese. Most men hate fat on a woman, too. Based on my experience, they’re more “honest” about it. Perhaps I should find that refreshing? Wouldn’t it be nice to live in a world where weight wasn’t at the forefront of most peoples’ minds?
I’m not happy with my body in its current state. I ache too much, my muscles are weaker, and my balance suffers. I used to be sturdy — not skinny, not fat, but solid. Coordinated. Consequential. I want my power back. Forget 125 pounds. Forget 145 pounds. If I were to get back to the weight I was at in 1999 — 160 — I would consider that a success. Until then, I’ll keep trying to love the “ugly bits.”
