It’s been made quite clear to me that I’m not allowed to
complain. I’m sure you’ll agree that I have no reason to feel the way I do, and
I shouldn’t be writing this post. I don’t expect to receive any sympathy cards
in the mail.
I know that I’m lucky when it comes to my weight. Neither the
number on the scale nor the number on my pants have ever been a real problem
for me. I’ve tried to lose a few pounds on occasion, but only because I wanted to and not because I really needed to.
For those reasons, I’m not allowed to feel the way I do
about my body. I’m not allowed to see the fat rolls or the muffin top. Because
no one else can see them under my clothes, I’m supposed to deny their existence
as well. Friends will lament about their post-baby bellies or the tightness of
their pants, and I will start to commiserate. The friend will then roll her
eyes and say something like, “Oh, shut up. Like you have anything to worry about.” They mean it in the nicest way
possible, of course. As nice as anyone can mean “shut up.”
That’s the awesome thing about clothes. They’re sort of
magical. They hide my belly rolls and thigh dimples. I go to great lengths to camouflage
my flaws, to create an illusion with my clothes and by constantly holding my
stomach in. Sucking it in 24/7 has become second nature. If asked to “let it
out,” I’m not sure I could physically do it. So I guess I can’t blame people for
believing what they see. I suppose I should be happy that my ruse has worked so
well all these years.
But the truth is, I’ve never been comfortable in my body, not even in high school. I’ve
always been thin, but a soft thin. “Skinny fat,” if you will. My belly has
never been toned, my rear has always been squishy, my thick thighs have always
jiggled, even in my youth. I wear a bikini on the beach, but my movements are
always strategic. As long as I’m standing up or lying down, I can keep up the façade,
and I can switch between the two positions in a blink of an eye. But as soon as
I need to sit upright, I throw on a shirt or towel to cover my stomach. If I
need to walk across the sand, I put on shorts or a long cover-up so no one sees
how much my lower half jiggles as I move.
Today, with my post-baby body and its stretched out skin, I
make even more of an effort to create this illusion. Because I’m small, I feel
like people expect me to look a certain way under my clothes. So when they see
me in a bathing suit, it’s sort of disappointing, like when a teenage boy
discovers the girl he’s feeling up is wearing a padded bra.
I know I should be amazed by what my body can do now that I’ve
given birth. I’ve read many posts by women who have come to love their bodies
and its softness brought on by motherhood. They look at the miracles their
bodies can produce, and they see nothing but beauty in the mirror. I know I
should feel that way, too, but I don’t. Maybe someday I will, but this is not
that post.
Pregnancy has stretched my body in ways I never thought
possible, making our already strained relationship even more difficult. And I’m
tired of feeling guilty for not being happy about that. It sucks, and I’m done
pretending it doesn’t suck.
So when other women vent about their bodies, I want so badly
to exclaim, “Me too! I know how you feel! You’re not alone!” But I know I have
to tread those waters carefully. By commiserating, I’m not in any way fishing
for compliments. I just want the same validation and camaraderie everyone else
is seeking.
Remember that the next time you complain about your body.
There are plenty of women who are bigger than you are, women who would give anything to look the way you do, and they wish you would stop complaining. Does that
make your feelings less valid? Of course not.
I know the moral of this story should be that we should all
love the skin we’re in. But the reality is that we don’t, not all the time. So
in those moments (or days or years) when we don’t love our bodies, we should be
able to support each other, not further diminish each other by devaluing what
another is feeling. Because whether we’re skinny, fat or skinny fat, we’ve all
been there.
