24 March 2021
My body peaked at age four. I weighed 33 pounds. I had dropped ten pounds like it was nothing. Sure, I was on the verge of being diagnosed with diabetes, and one of the symptoms happens to be weight loss. I was cranky and peed the bed, also symptoms associated with my new disease. It’s the first and only time a doctor told me I was underweight.
I’ve met people who tell me they have trouble gaining or maintaining weight. I stare at these people with my mouth agape. I’ve never had this problem. Well, except for that one time when I was in preschool. If I even think about a piece of chocolate cake my pants tighten. I’m always bewildered when someone tells me they forgot to eat. Forgot to eat? It’s too much for me to comprehend. How is that possible? No matter how “busy” I may be, I’ve never missed a meal.
For as long as I can remember I have been obsessed with food. Even as a kid I’m pretty sure I was always the most excited when snack time or a meal rolled around. I didn’t pick at my food. I enjoyed each bite and had no problem cleaning my plate. I was never the kid who told my mom or a friend’s mom that we’d be at the table in a minute. When “dinner” left their mouth I was on the move. Playtime was over.
It’s probably due to my piece of shit pancreas that I’ve become so engrossed with food. I mean I even made a career out of it. All my meals as a child were calculated and on a timer. I had to eat at a certain time and only eat the amount of carbs either my mom or I had planned six hours before. This was before a new more efficient type of insulin was introduced when I was in high school. No flexibility or spur of the moment meal ideas were allowed. And mindless snacking was not even an option. I was a svelte child until my boobs and hips came onto the scene. And then, when the insulin improved it was game over.
When my boobs sprang to life in high school I was consumed with what to do with them. One minute there was nothing and then overnight bam! They were always in the way. I tried to downplay their size. I wasted so much time fretting over the fact that one was slightly larger than the other. Little did I know that this is common for most women. No one bothered to tell me that. Of course, I never asked and did my best to hide and constrict them. It’s absurd now when I think about the things I worried about back then regarding my tits.
I didn’t appreciate just how perky they once were. I mean they pointed up. Now it looks like I’m hauling two flat bags of flour around on my chest. Only when they’re fastened into a well made bra do they even remotely look presentable. Now my concerns are how fast they’re moving towards my knees. No matter how hard I try to remember to do a self breast exam each month, I can’t seem to do it. They’re a couple of sagging time bombs. Now my worries aren’t that they’ve arrived, but that because there’s so much of them, so much could go wrong.
It’s a hard truth that once I finally got over myself and became comfortable in my own skin, everything began to turn to shit. Some days I swear my entire body is covered in cellulite and everything is sagging south. Vitality, smooth skin and perkiness are wasted on the young. When I was in my youth, I was too insecure at the time to really appreciate how amazing things actually looked. By the time I saw the light, it was too late. But at least now I really don’t waste too much time worrying about how things look. Besides it’s reassuring to know that things will just keep drooping as time goes on. So I might as well enjoy this semi-sag phase before things really hit the ground.
The other day I saw my reflection in the mirror and did a double take. Were my ribs visible through my skin? Could it be? Wow, I thought. Upon further inspection I realized it was cellulite. There was cellulite on my sides, just south of my armpits. On both sides. God forbid, the cellulite wasn’t symmetrical. Seriously, what the actual fuck? How does cellulite sprout on the rib cage? There was no mistaking it. My skin dimpled right around my bra line. I guess if I really wanted to find a silver lining when it came to my rib cage cellulite, at least it’s in a place that is covered most of the year. Though, it’s a real stretch to find something positive about rib cage cellulite.
I’ve been in my body for 35 years now. We’ve been through a lot together. Do I always love it? Hell no. I’m tired of seeing my thick bat-wing like arms every time they’re exposed. No matter how many weighted arm repetitions I do, they won’t budge. The arms are really like the rug of the body. They tie the whole thing together. You can’t escape them when looking at the whole picture. Same with the legs. It’d be nice not to have rug burn between my legs where the friction is evident from simply walking. Or, having holes in most of pants where my thighs meet. I really should learn how to sew patches and save some money on pants.
Some days I avoid the mirror and other days I seek it out. There’s no feeling like when you can button your jeans without taking a deep breath in. When there’s wiggle room around the waistline I feel like I should go out and buy a scratch ticket. It feels so fantastic that I’m tempted to unbutton and remove my pants and do the whole process over again. Just the same, when it’s a struggle to button or zip something I want to pull my hair out.
I realized I’d never inherit my mother’s legs or her ability to look like a model in every single picture when I hit 30. I’m not sure why it took three decades for me to realize that the legs I saw reflected in the mirror were mine for keeps. Or why I couldn’t take a decent photo to save my life. It was nonnegotiable. My mom’s ankles are simply bone on bone, held together with the sheerest, thinest covering of skin. It’s like the wrapper of a fresh spring roll. We’re talking so light and delicate, that you’re not sure if there’s any skin at all mixed in with those bones. They are a work of art.
My ankles look as if they’re wrapped in bubble wrap. Bubble wrap that could inflate or deflate depending on the time of day. My dad used to tease me about my “cankles.” That is until I pointed out that I had inherited his “cankles.” Excuse you, rude man, but these are all thanks to you, I told him. So instead of mocking them, you should take responsibility for them and apologize to me for passing them along. That shut him up.
Sometimes I can see my ankles in the morning when I first wake up, but after standing on my legs for ten hours a day they don’t exist anymore. It’s like in exchange for having to work all day, they get back at me simply by blurring the line between ankle and calf. It figures I’d have lazy ankles. To be honest though, as much as my ankle situation bothers me, if I had a choice I’d take a working pancreas over killer ankles any day.
If my mom had been any taller, she could have been a model. The evidence is in any and all photos of her. In the seventies she was a lean, tan, effortless bombshell with a great smile. We’re the same height, but our pictures look nothing alike. In any picture of me, there’s a 95% chance my eyes are closed and I still can’t quite figure out my best angle. Plus, I am so pale, I look like a ghost. I don’t get sun-kissed. I get fried. Nothing is effortless and it’s miraculous if I take a half decent picture. If a miracle does happen, it’s a real “dear diary” moment.
I haven’t stepped on a scale in a long time. And only do so when a nurse at the doctor’s office instructs me to hop on. I’ll remove my shoes, jacket, purse and anything else that might bare weight. Then I hold my breath and step on the scale as lightly as possible. It amazes me that we give so much power to a tiny piece of equipment. The scale seems to have overstepped and taken on a much bigger role because we’ve let it. I don’t want to bother with a contraption that can make me feel utterly crappy about myself when the numbers flash before my eyes and anyone else’s eyes passing by the semi-private area where the scale is kept. It’s taken me awhile, but I refuse to let the scale dictate how I feel. It’s not a good gauge for that. It’s more about how I feel in my own skin that determines how I feel about my body overall.
Now that I’m older and a little wiser I’ve grown to appreciate all that my body does and continues to do. Maybe it takes losing the use of one organ to really appreciate everything else that is still working on and in your body. Supposedly, we only get the one body for as long as we’re here, so I figure I might as well make the most of it. We’re in this together. Whether I can appreciate what I’m seeing in the mirror that day, or not.
While some women dream about finding a great relationship, or having a toned body, I dream about a meal I ate six months ago. Perhaps, that’s why I prefer to be alone with a little extra cushioning. The thing is though, my body is like my ride or die partner for life. Without my body I wouldn’t get anywhere and without my brain it wouldn’t know where it was going. The body is a vessel required for living. And if you can’t love the one you’re with, you might as well make the most of the one you got while you have it.
HALF FULL DECK 