Heavy Heart, Heavy Mind

As a teacher of young people, I am acutely aware of the trials of being a teenager. You gotta look good, act fun and popular, and have lots of friends. Stuff like that is still important today, but in a different life. I scarcely remember what it used to be like, and usually I cannot recall the importance of those crucial elements of everyday teenager-ness. The one exception to that lack of recollection is body image.

I’m 33 years old, and I’m fat.

When I say, “fat”, I mean overweight. “Fat” is just one of those humorless and tasteless attempts to lighten the topic. That way people can’t think or say it first. These attempts make people uncomfortable. I know this because when others use it, I’m uncomfortable.

I had to go shopping yesterday for new pants, because I can’t fit into my current ones. I bought size 14, which was an admittance to my current physical state. I looked for inexpensive “slimming” clothes, and was reminded that I’ve never looked for that reason before.

I’ve never in my short life been this heavy. I used to be a dancer – my metabolism was high all through college, and I could eat and do whatever I wanted. I was a size 4 or 6. I just can’t shake that mentality; every day I think I should exercise, but I don’t. Health is certainly a consideration – I weigh 25 lbs over the maximum “average” for a woman my age and height. I’m tired, sometimes unmotivated with life, and deal with both depression and anxiety. My school has a fitness room that I can use for free. There is NO REASON AT ALL for me not to exercise. I just don’t.

My husband and I have a part-time job as Bed and Breakfast innsitters; when the innkeepers are away for a week or a weekend, we go and run the Inn in their absence. We like doing it, and because we love cooking and food, it’s practically a wash for both sides of the deal. It’s good and fun money. I was raised on comfort food, and have consistent cravings for my mom and grandma’s food. I’m a chicken/roast beef, mashed potatoes/stuffing and Minnesota casserole (hot dish, in Minnesota-speak) person. My part-time job and my historic eating choices are not helping my weight, and I know it. The weather is getting cold now, and I tend to hibernate and eat tasty comfort food.

As a feminist and as a woman, I struggle with my weight as a body image issue. I should still feel like the beautiful and confident woman people tell me I am. But, I cannot shake the voice in my head that tells me I don’t look like a model, and I can no longer fit into my size 6 pants. I don’t like standing next to smaller women, I don’t like to watch them on TV, and I know that my current shadow is completely eclipsing the size of the woman I used to be, in both size and self-esteem. Yet, all I am doing is lamenting about it.

I know the responsibility largely lies with me and the work I have to do on myself, both mentally and physically. There’s no passing of blame here. I do want to know how much of this standard comes from my surroundings and the culture in which I was raised. My mom’s tradition was to never leave the house without make-up on — and not lightly applied. I read Seventeen and Cosmopolitan when I was younger. I watched lots of TV with the “ideal” woman depicted. I was always coached to look good and well put-together. I wanted boys to like me. I eschewed compliments because it was the polite thing to do. I wasn’t popular with the boys, and I was always assuming that it was because I wasn’t Jenni or Melissa or Staci who were beautiful and popular and perfect. Size WAS everything.

Rationally, I am aware that these things are happening. I know now that women’s sizes are subjective, and inaccurate. Most women cannot buy clothes off the rack that fit properly. I just wish I could have some sort of inspiration that hits me in the heart. I can’t choose in what form that “inspiration” will take place, and I can only hope it’s not harmful to my loved ones or me. There’s no silver bullet; I need to dig into my reserves of strength to begin my personal makeover as soon as possible. I also want to be ok where I am. I need to know there’s no shame in a 14. I may have to look pretty far and wide for that kind of acceptance. The first place I should look needs to be in my mirror.