I was lying on my back. Sort of stretching. Sort of just breathing. Sort of delaying the pick-up from the childcare center. Pretty much my standard ending to my gym time these days. And three women, who from my guesstimation, were in their 40s, stood together. Chatting. About traveling. And kids. About the exercise class they were just in. But mostly, chatting about their weight. Well, not their weight in actualities. No numbers were spoken. But they talked about that spot on the back of their hips — the area so lovingly referred to by so many as the muffin top — that is stubborn since birthing children and passing 30. The spot on their thighs that jiggles more than they would want it to. The part of the front of their bellies that no longer holds the same elasticity it once did. They talked about the aging that they are feeling and seeing every day.
I’m not judging. Truly, I am not. This is not a phenomena that I am uninvolved in. It is not something that I never wake up thinking about. Or that I never allow my mind to drift to. And I most definitely have brought up the lack of abdominal muscles I have found since my c section. And the drooping that seems to be occurring under my neck as of late. I’ve been an active participant in conversations just like theirs. But the conversation just held me. I should have gotten up and walked away. But instead, I laid there, listening, perplexed. To me, these women looked perfect. Toned. Flawless. Fit. Young. Vibrant. For all intents and purposes — Beautiful. But even they felt the need to repair. To fix. To, in many ways, adjust. And I thought to myself, If they feel that way and they appear to me to be unflawed, then for me, is it hopeless? Is it hopeless to try to love my body for what it is when it feels like perfection is never within reach? Is it hopeless to try to love my body if it is going to continue to age? And continue to get harder each day to keep it healthy? Is it a fool’s errand to try and tell my friends that they are beautiful if no one ever really gets to a point where they accept it?
No. No it isn’t. Because I think, if we all pause for a moment and look in a mirror, we can see something beautiful in it. Something that transcends the status quo. And I think, even more, that if we step away from the mirror and get out a piece of paper, we can each come up with many ways that our bodies and our minds and our hearts are “beauty-full”. The love I have for my body is something I never even understood I could have when I was 20. Because now, I have mad respect for my body. And that is something that I didn’t possess yet at 20. I didn’t know how much I’d appreciate all that it does for me. All that it is capable of doing. In a sea of messages every single day about commercial beauty, I didn’t even understand the importance of not cutting myself down. Not bagging on my pile of bones. I didn’t have images and dialogue, open and honest, about the insecurities I felt, until I’d already let the feelings take a toll on my body. I didn’t understand the damage that attempting to achieve perfection could do long-term. I just didn’t know. But now… now I know. I know the importance of taking care of this shell I carry. I know how it feels when I treat it poorly. I truly know what my body can do. What it is capable of. And that is the difference. That is the defining difference.
I continued to eavesdrop. I shouldn’t have. But I did. I listened to the women. And I heard the thing I hate most of all. Most of any of it. “I know. I have my annual exam today and I just don’t want to get weighed.” Ugh. That sentence. The weight of that sentence. Another woman chimed in talking about how much she hates that the scale is right inside the door before I even have the chance to take off my coat or shoes. And I understood that. The idea that the coat and the shoes weigh extra. Who hasn’t had that thought when a nurse is standing there scribbling down the digits. And that the coat… The shoes… They contribute to that life-defining number that the scale stops on. And I felt a lump in my throat. At what age will it end. The fear of the scale.
Each of those women agreed. The weighing in was terrifying for them. The worst part of their day… their year even. I found that thought to be not dissimilar to what other women I know feel. To what I have felt at different stages in my life. And I wondered again… at what age does it end… a woman’s fear of the scale.
But I realized something important there, on the mat. I do not always love my body. But the scale no longer defines me. I can see numbers for what they are… The amount of me that is walking around. And I do, on occasion weigh myself to know that it’s part of what can help me know if I’m having healthy habits… Because I have a history with unhealthy ones. I don’t know if people should weigh themselves or not. But I know that it doesn’t cause me to respond. I don’t know that I could have said that at some other points in my life. Because there were times in my life where it dictated my emotions for the day. But those days are long gone. The days of longing for the the numbers to shout out “you are a person that matters because you weigh this”… those are gone. Because what I want now… what I want for my body to be about… well it’s so different.
Now I dislike the word skinny. I feel like calling someone skinny is sort of a back-handed compliment. A word said with a certain connotation to it. Now, I want to be strong. I want to listen to my body as it tells me what type of foods make it feel good. And healthy. And nourished. I also want to listen to my body when it screams I WANT CHOCOLATE and I want to eat some. Not all. Not a whole bag. But some. I want to not count calories because the idea of counting calories makes me want to vomit, literally, and so I know that for my personality and with my history, I just can’t. I like to eat all types of things… in moderation. I want to celebrate that my body has carried babies. In me and on my hip. And because of that, my body bears certain markers of being a mature woman. Instead of carrying the weight of the numbers on the scale, I want to celebrate the weight of holding a baby on my chest. I want to celebrate that my muscles respond to different types of working out. I want to believe that this body is my one and only body I am getting in this life and that I should treat it as such. I want to cease any battle I have with the numbers that appear on the scale. I want to run with my boys without being out of breath. I want to feel the satisfaction of sweat. And acknowledge how exercise makes my brain feel more at ease. And makes my body more relaxed. And I want to live a long, healthy life. I want my boys to know that there is beauty at every size, shape, and form. I know. It’s a long list of wants… but I hope to get there. To stay in a place where the scale bears no weight on my mind.
My body is mine. It is not the 22 year old I follow on IG. It is not the one gracing the Victoria’s Secret swimsuit catalog. It is not my 60 year old mother’s. And it isn’t the friend of mine who has had twins. It’s mine. It’s been with me since we started this life and it will be with me until we drop. And I won’t always like everything about it. I won’t. Of that, I am certain. But I continuously tell myself that it is pretty much amazingly fantastic that it is capable of getting me everywhere I want to go and helping me be everything I want to be… I can’t fault it for having squish and jiggle here and there. I am not telling you I want to walk around sans clothing everywhere. I am not stating that I don’t compare myself to others. And as for swimsuit shopping, well, I still believe that is for the birds. But I am saying that I believe in giving my body the props it deserves for sticking with me even when I haven’t always given it the respect it deserves or the credit it garners.
I just want this to be a dialogue. Not one where everyone has a scale smashing free for all. Because I sort of think that’s letting the scale win. A different kind of dialogue than the one where women tell each other what they can do to be more perfect all the time. I want women to talk openly about their bodies in a way that doesn’t completely depricate them. I want women to believe that there is beauty in the non-mainstream. I want women who have children and who work with those in the next generation to ooze confidence — both of body and mind. And I want us all to stop feeling the weight of the scale. The scale is meant to weigh us… but we let it carry weight on us each time we read the numbers. I don’t need anyone to know what I weigh or what sizes I wear, I don’t know what that accomplishes, but I refuse to be so terrified of an object that states the truth to me. And I refuse to let that number define anything other than the amount of pounds that I carry with me as I dance, love, laugh, and breathe.
I don’t know if it’s possible. But I think it’s worth a try. Because what is our end game, as women, as humans, with letting a few numbers define us? What is the point of letting an object define our worth?
Is it hopeless to want to embrace those things that make us individuals? I seriously hope not. If so… I just might be screwed. And is it hopeless to try to love our bodies? Well, if it is, I guess I’ll die trying.
This week is National Eating Disorders Awareness Week. It’s an excellent time to ask yourself What do I love about me? And it’s a great time to stop letting yourself feel the weight of the scale.
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