My new home has a rather large master bathroom complete with a walk-in closet. It’s quite posh, really. It also features many mirrors. At least it seems that way. And these mirrors are hung at all sorts of angles from one another, creating something of a fun house effect. Or maybe house is horrors is closer to the truth. At least for me.
As I walk through the bathroom, I can’t help but view my entire body from angles that were previously unknown to me.
Picasso’s Girl Before a Mirror
Last night I caught sight of my full profile, and I stopped. I looked. I saw what everyone else sees all the time. You see, my body doesn’t carry weight the way most bodies do. I carry the majority of my extra weight in my belly, and it sticks way out. I am bigger front to back than side to side. When I look in the mirror I think I know what I look like, but I rarely catch a side view. Now I have one available all the time. Oh goody.
I stood there and gathered up as much of the belly fat as I could and took stock. There’s a lot. Then I let go and looked back in the mirror. I imagined what my body would look like if much of that belly were gone. Yes, there would still be plenty of jiggle to the thighs, and the back fat would still be in place. Yes, the beefy arms would still exist along with the double chin, but I would look pretty darn good. Not photoshop good, mind you, but fit and trim. That body could shop in a department that doesn’t have any sizes with the letter X in them. It would be nice, but it won’t happen by itself.
Those mirrors aren’t going away. They will remain in place to either encourage me or taunt me, as I see fit. It’s up to me to approach them with self love, not loathing. Too many of us hate our bodies, but our bodies deserve our care and tenderness, not our hateful thoughts. Regardless of the body I’m in, I will care for it and thank it for all the wonderful things it can do. And when I’m feeling really motivated, I’ll take it out for a spin, just to make sure all the parts are still working.
When I was a young student teacher part of my training required me to videotape and critique one of my lessons. Apart from the complex logistics of borrowing the appropriate equipment (no cell phones in those days), I regard this exercise as one of the most irritating, yet ultimately helpful experiences in my training. Still, I hated it.
You see, I was fat. I’ve been fat to greater or lesser degrees since roughly puberty. In seventh grade home economics class the teacher measured each of us so that we would use the correct size pattern for garment construction. It was all very sensible, and not done to make anyone feel embarrassed or awkward, but c’mon, we were in seventh grade!
My waist measurement was a full three inches greater than most of the other girls. Well, two and a half, but it felt like three. It was, gasp, twenty-nine and a half inches. Most of the girls were in the twenty-five to twenty-seven inch range. In retrospect most of them hadn’t hit puberty yet, either, but my twelve-year-old brain didn’t take that into consideration. It also didn’t take the fact that I was taller than most of them into account either. I just felt big and fat. I wish the me today could have talked to the twelve-year-old me.
The me now might not have as many weight issues if that were the case. I could comfort that little girl and explain to her that everyone develops at their own pace, and try to convince her that she was just fine. Maybe I could ease her worries just a bit. Then I would encourage her to keep riding her bike and swimming and playing basketball and volleyball and soccer, even if she wasn’t the best. Maybe she would have developed the confidence to stay active instead of shrinking toward the sidelines.
Unfortunately, my mother was of no help at all. I’m adopted and by the time I was twelve I was way bigger than my mom ever would be. I towered over her, and outweighed her by a considerable margin. She’s barely over 5 feet tall and was under 100 pounds when she married. She didn’t have a clue what it was like to feel big and awkward. In fact she didn’t have much of a clue about puberty at all. I had to ask for a training bra at age 10. Talk about humiliating. I tried hinting, but it didn’t work. Unlike other little girls of 10, I really needed one.
Going through junior high and high school I was always on the bigger side, but not so big that I couldn’t shop in the regular stores. That would come later. I always loved to eat, and as I got older much of my social life involved going out for food. I grew up in the cold Northeast, and that’s what people do for 9 months of the year or so. Then the weather gets better and we have picnics and barbeques all summer. Oh, and we drink. Hey, it’s cold outside!
Sure enough the freshman 15 found me, along with a little extra. Then I graduated, got a job, moved in with my boyfriend, and really got comfortable. Stretchy pants became my friends, and the extra pounds didn’t seem to matter so much. Big sweaters were in style and life was good.
Then came graduate school and student teaching. I needed clothes. Real clothes. Suits. Nothing fit. I had to move up to the plus size department. It was humiliating, especially since my tiny mother was the one taking me shopping for my professional wardrobe. She’s never been easy to shop with. It was awful, but I did come away with some really lovely pieces. Thank you Liz Claiborne and Jones of New York for making beautiful clothing for plus size women, even way back then when everyone else was putting all the fat women in pastel polyester.
Off I went to my student teaching gig, doing quite a good job of it, thank you very much. Then came the videotape assignment. Ugh. I did NOT want to do it. Of course I had seen myself in the mirror, millions of times. But pictures somehow were different, they made me look bigger than I thought I was. They still do. And video? Well that’s a hundred times worse. Now not only will I see all sides of me, but I’ll have to listen to the silly things I say, and watch the awkward way I move. No thanks. I wasn’t looking at it from the standpoint of how it could help me assess my teaching practice at all. I was too wrapped up in my own self concept of my physical attributes to move into the realm of what the assignment could do for me. I was fixated on what it would do TO me. Stupid girl.
Still, it was required, so I sucked it up and did it. I soon forgot the camera and just taught the lesson. Afterwards I avoided watching the video for a couple of days, but I had to watch it to critique it, and the assignment was coming due. I couldn’t put it off forever. I put the tape in, prepared for the worst. The first minute I spent cringing as I went through a mental checklist. Hair? Not bad. I like those earrings. My voice is loud enough, but not too loud. That jacket really does look nice with that skirt, but ugh, I walk like a linebacker.
Soon I ran out of things to fixate on, so I began to actually pay attention to the teaching. Hey, that was a good point I made. Uh oh, I rushed through that part of the directions, no wonder the students got confused when they got to that part of the assignment. Oh no, I never saw her raised hand as I was teaching. Hey, those two have been passing notes! I didn’t see that during the lesson. Great job having all the materials in place before hand, distributing everything went very quickly and smoothly. And so on. Once I stopped worrying about the silly stuff like my hair and my weight, I could focus on the important stuff, like how to best reach my students and where to hone my skills. It was an eye opening experience, one that my professor included for a very good reason.
I still don’t love seeing myself on video, but I no longer cringe at the thought. I am valuable. I have a place in this world. Ok, maybe I take up a little more space than most people, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be in the picture. I contribute to my family, to my workplace, and to my students lives. I have a voice and I use it. If it occasionally ends up in video, so be it. Maybe I will reach someone who needs to hear my message, or even just see me being happy with who I am. After all, isn’t that our ultimate goal? To live in a way that makes us happy and satisfied with who we are and what we have to offer the world? I think it is.
“They’ll know,” I thought to myself as I took a deep breath. I looked in the mirror, and it’s a good thing I did. A shiny reflection glinted back at me from my blouse. Dammit! I almost walked into my first Weight Watchers meeting in years with a chip of donut glaze prominently displayed above my right breast. That was a close call.
I made the decision to go back to Weight Watchers, but it came at a bad time. You see, it’s Teacher Appreciation Week. You knew that, right? No? That’s ok. For most of my career I didn’t know when it was either. That’s because Teacher Appreciation Week (TAW from now on, because it’s just too many letters to type) was marked by a little card of appreciation from my administrator (sometimes with a pencil or a Hershey Kiss), and a few spammy type emails from various businesses that sell overpriced goods to underpaid teachers. It was easy to miss, especially since it’s not a national holiday, at least not yet.
This year, however, TAW is different. This year I work at a school with a kick-ass PTA who takes their job very seriously. These people are on a mission, and by golly they succeed. They raise funds and provide goods and services to the school like nobody’s business. We needed more Smartboards. Hello PTA. Done. Amazing. They run roller skating parties and dances, they sell gift wrap and cookie dough, and among other things, they give the teachers money for supplies. Unless you’ve taught in a school with no budget and no viable PTA, you can’t appreciate how huge this is.
Well, these generous people took it upon themselves to give our teacher’s lounge a makeover. They brought in two sleek new tables and a new television stand with storage underneath (I’ve never actually seen the television on, maybe it’s there for emergencies). They’ve redone the bulletin boards that were looking a little sad and sloppy. They put up decorative mirrors and a few other wall decorations to jazz things up. And then the real deal… they gave us tons of new, useful stuff! Two coffee makers, two microwaves, a toaster, a three station crockpot, an ice maker and a huge set of dishes and storage containers. Oh, they even brought in new dish scrubbers! It’s incredible.
Naturally they wanted us to use all these gorgeous new appliances and dishes, so they brought in a huge breakfast too. I was good. I ate a yogurt. But only because I had just been to Starbucks and had a pastry and a frappucino. But shhhh, nobody needs to know about that. Or about the donut I had at lunch. Ok. I had two of them. And then another after school. And another. Oh god. Did I really eat four donuts? And a yogurt? And a pastry? And a frappucino? And nachos in honor of Cinco de Mayo (because I’m sure everyone in Mexico eats nachos to commemorate General Zaragoza’s victory over the French at Puebla)? Yep. I did.
I could have thrown in the towel right then and there. I could have deemed myself unworthy of Weight Watchers. I could have taken my donut stuffed, shame filled self home for another round of woe is me, I’m so fat. I could have, but I didn’t. I stopped in the restroom, removed the tell tale donut glaze, and bravely stepped back into that bright yellow haven called Weight Watchers.
Yes, getting on the scale sucked, but so what. I can do it. I’ve done it before. The room was full of people just like me. People who want to shed pounds for whatever reason. People who appreciate the support of others and the accountability of the weekly weigh in. The people there are nice. They really are. And if they judge you for walking in with donut glaze, they generally keep it to themselves, even if they do want to lick your shirt.
BulgingButtons 