Him: Who is that?
Me: Oh, that's So-and-So.
Him: How do you know that?
Me: Because I do the grocery shopping.
And then I leave the room, because I cannot stand the Today Show. Unless at some point I become alarmingly, devastatingly famous, and am asked to appear on their fine program, in which case I will totally sell out and do it.
He looks at me like that's a ridiculous answer every time we have that exchange, even though we have it fairly often. It's one of the things we do best as a couple, having the same conversation, almost word for word, a maddening number of times. I contend it's because his listener is broken. He contends it's because he hangs on every word that comes out of my face and wants to hear them repeatedly. The truth is probably, as with most scenarios, somewhere in the middle.
But anyone who does the shopping for their family can tell you that it's true. One trip through the checkout and you will be up to date on who's sleeping with whom (I don't care), which diets will help you keep the weight off for good (None of them), the best cheesecake recipe in the known universe (This is invariably on the same cover as the diet story. Hmm...), and who Kanye is feuding with this week (And we're back to I couldn't care less). I generally glance at them, at the most, with one exception: The Weekly World News. I always check that one just to make sure I'm up on whatever the Bat Boy is doing.
This week, however, I was delighted to see this on the latest issue of a very popular woman's magazine that, in the interest of not being sued by someone, should someone of legal import ever read this, I shall call, "Shmosmopolitan":
Imagine my euphoria, my glee, my near ecstasy, when my gaze fell upon this! My first thought was, "Well! Mission accomplished, Shmosmo!" Barely two days into the new year, and I had already achieved an indeed Epic Ass, without even trying! Perhaps, they meant "epic," differently than I was interpreting it? But they didn't clarify, so I'm putting that in the Win column. And if my boobs could talk, well...I won't linger on that one, because I'm fairly certain we all know what they would say. But for those of you who would like to play the at home version of What Would Amy's Boobs Say? just smush your cheeks together, and shout, "We can't breathe!" There are other topics they discuss amongst themselves, I'm sure. Such as, Why does she keep putting her crochet hook in here? How long do you think she's going to look for her sunglasses before she remembers we have them? And, She really needs to start wearing a bib."
My first reaction was to laugh, heartily, and obviously to take the pic. but I immediately started looking at the cover girl, and I am disappointed to tell you, it killed the mood.
I wish it hadn't. I wish I didn't care. I wish I could tell you that I didn't start immediately doing what I immediately did. But it wouldn't be true.
I've seen the links on Facebook, the ones "outing" all the untouched images of models and actors. I know the fashion magazines are keeping the airbrushing industry alive. I know it. I believe it. I rant about it. I renounce the ridiculous standards, and preach (to the choir, mostly, because that's the safest audience to preach to) how demeaning it is and how beautiful these people are without it, and how unnecessary it is, and how it just perpetuates unattainable stereotypes for men and women alike. And I believe every word I hear coming out of my mouth. I really do.
But...
I start the checklist. You may have one, too. That mental checklist you run down as you stare at the covers and the headlines, and put your Doritos on the belt:
Well, sure, she's probably 15...
Well, sure, she's on TV, she can afford a professional food slapper to knock things out of her hand...
Well, sure, but she hasn't had any kids...
Well, sure, but she was just born that way, she's naturally (insert adjective here: tall, willowy, svelte),
whereas I am pretty sure I come from Hobbits...
Well, sure, but she has to look like that, it's her job, she has a trainer and a personal chef...
Well, sure, but these folks have to count every single calorie, that's no way to live...
Well, sure, but I can't afford to work out for hours every day, I have better things to do...
That last one is going to set off bull#@*! alarms for some of you, I am keenly aware. You know I spend a vast amount of time holding up a small dog. Some of you also know that I have a doggy version of a Baby Bjorn for the aforementioned pup, so I could just strap her on my front and do almost any exercise I felt like doing. I know I make my fair share of excuses.
But do you see the sick cycle my brain goes through? I see a completely false version of an entirely different human being, with her own genetics, her own lifestyle, her own hang ups, and I immediately take it at its face value (mistake number one), and begin to compare that lie (because that's what it is) to my own truth...which quite frankly, ain't so true. I cautioned a good friend just a couple of nights ago about doing this very thing, comparing her worst to what someone else was presenting to the world as their best.
I was told by many people who had reached them before I did that my 40s were going to be the best years of my life so far. I was going to finally feel comfortable in my own skin, and stop caring what others thought when they looked at me from the side. I'm fairly ok with Straight Ahead, Facing Front Amy. But Profile Amy is a nightmare, and she'll cut ya if you try to photograph her. The profoundly disappointing fact is, that for someone with as much skin as I have, I am no more comfortable in it than I was in my 30s. It turns out that I have been waiting for something to happen that doesn't happen by waiting.
It's embarassing to admit this. I feel like I've been fooled. I've thought of myself as being above all that shallow nonsense, but it turns out I'm just another stooge who's been duped into buying a load of goods, and using terms normally reserved for well dressed gangsters in movies from the 1940s.
I've mentioned that I am a fearful person. I deal with depression and anxiety on a daily basis, and I fake it pretty well in public, but I am a hot mess much of the time, on the inside. Add to that a dose of truly Grade A crappy self-esteem, and simply abysmal body image, and you've got yourself a recipe for disaster. I've bought the lie, and I've used it to convince myself that A) it matters, and B) I'm failing at achieving it.
And I'm not the only one.
I'm tired. I'm tired of avoiding my own reflection in the bathroom mirror when I get in and out of the shower. I'm tired of sucking in my gut when I pull up next to someone at a traffic light. I'm tired of hanging upside down and doing gymnastics to take a selfie that captures only one chin.
I'm not looking for diet advice. I know I need to move more. I have been a couch potato, and I have been a 6-day-a-week-worker-outer. I have run the gamut. Well, I've speed walked it. I know what a serving size of chicken looks like and how many grapes are considered enough for one person. That's not the problem. The problem is defying convention and loving my lumps, because they are part of me, and I am worth loving. That's going to take work.
That's probably what this blog is going to end up being about, ultimately. And, as is my habit, it will be peppered with self-deprecating smart assery. And I would like to say that learning to accept myself, wholly, unabashedly, will be enough for me to keep at it. But it won't, at least not for a while. So, what I intend to do is to keep digging, and analyzing, and challenging, and confessing at the keyboard, in the hopes that some of this rings true for someone else who might stumble upon it. Because I may not feel I'm worth it yet. But I know you guys are.
No comments:
Post a Comment