My facebook status update has inspired a rather tragic line of thought that has, in turn, led to this blog that is one part teen angst, one part chubby girl pathetic, and a touch of social commentary.
The update was:
“Exercise, exercise, exercise, avoid carbs, eat protein, build muscle, burn fat, get sleepy, pass out, load on carbs because I’ve used up all my energy, excise hard core for 6 hours, cry, weigh myself and see that I’ve gained 70lbs since yesterday, cry some more, pass out hating myself. Why do women do this to ourselves? I was 5’7 and 123lbs in high school and felt fat because my friends weighed 100lbs and wore a 0.”
Besides myself (ourselves, too, because I doubt that I’m the only person with this problem), I partially blame other women and a lot of Caucasian men. I don’t try to look good for men; I compare myself to other women and try to look good in comparison to them. At the same time, however, Caucasian men are the only men I can think of who, as a whole, appreciate women who are so thin that they nearly look boyish. Sure, it is shameful to be so concerned with the perceptions of a society that still undermines the value of women, but I’m only human.
And at then end of the day, who gives a shit, who has to live with me? Why, I do, of course! And, you know, with as much as I’ve come to enjoy exercise because of the emotional benefits (non-crack induced joyous highs), I should be happy with my body. No, I’m not the most physically fit person in the world, but I’m much more fit than I used to be. Months ago I couldn’t jog 1/4 a mile without getting winded, but I’ve worked up to jogging nearly two miles without hiperventalating. The other night, deciding to just run as fast as I could for as long as I could, I ran 1/4 a mile in a little over a minute. At the end my knee hated me, but I was pretty proud of myself. Small victories, I suppose.
Still though, there is this number looming over me. Actually, there are several numbers looming over me. We bitch and moan about “being just a number” at a college, but why should colleges treat us any different than we treat ourselves? I am my pant size, my skirt size, dress size, my underwear size, my bra size, my weight, my shoe size, my ring size, my height, and so on.
Fact: I will never be a zero. I’ve tried and failed miserably. Realistically, the least I can weigh is 130; the smallest size I can wear is a 4; my shoe size is permanently 8-9; my underwear will always be a little on the large size because I like ‘em that way; my skirt and dress sizes will always be smaller than expected because my body is proportionally confused; and my height will never exceed my current height, which I underestimate and friends overestimate (I most certainly am not 5’8 or taller. I am, however, good enough at feigning confidence to seem taller than I really am.)
Truth: When I lost all of that weight in high school, I also had an eating disorder, though I’m not sure what to label it. I’d exercise for hours a day, obsess over what I ate, put food in my mouth and spit it out, vomit if I ever ate anything that I thought would immediately turn to fat in my body, and weight myself multiple times a day. When I went to the doctor for my yearly checkup, my doctor noted that I lost too much weight too quickly, my keytones were extremely high, and there was something else in either my blood or my urnine sample that made her question me about an eating disorder. She told me to stop losing weight before I reached an unhealthy weight. Seems to me it was good advice from my doctor. On the other hand, my mother, a nurse who works with that doctor, became enraged and later told me that I did not need to stop losing weight and that I was fianlly looking good.
