Eye of the beholder

I shouldn't like my body, but I do. I didn't always.

As a preteen I lamented that I didn't have firm thighs or a flat enough stomach. When I was 10 I would get up at 5:30am with my 8 year old sister and we would put on worn shorts and browned Tretorn sneakers, pad quietly down through the kitchen, den, and back hallway to the garage, open the heavy door to my father's shop, and go to his slightly rusted weight bench. We used it for leg lifts, and after pulling the metal pins that kept the weights on and adjusting them to what we wanted, one or the other of us would lie on the bench, position our knees over one padded bar and our feet under the other, and the metal ring that held the leg lift apparatus in place would begin squeaking methodical as we counted together "one" squeak "two" squeak "thREE". We would pause together without comment when either of us stopped to pant, silently keeping track of who could do the most lifts before taking a rest. We'd count as high as we could, adding more as we got stronger. When the muscles above our knees burned and felt wobbly, we would head out of the shop and into the wet Arkansas morning, crunching in a slow jog around the 1/8 mile square of driveway to road, to road, to driveway. We would circle 4 times and then go inside, a light sheen of sweat on our brows and biceps that felt suddenly cold in the house's air conditioning. The whole process from bed & back to bedroom to get dressed took about 30 minutes.

I would filch my mother's magazines on a semi-regular basis between ages 10-14, first looking for any short stories that involved sex, and then grazing all of the fashion advice. "Don't sleep with your face on your pillow" I remember reading when I was about 11, "the pressure will form wrinkles". I slept face up for the following two months, and would despair when I would wake up to find I'd flipped over in the night.

I look back on these episodes with shock and horror. I remember the rising panic I felt worrying as an 11 year old that I would have crow's feet someday, or lying on the bed amidst all my stuffed animals and dolls and craning my neck to look down on my stomach to make sure it was completely flat no matter what position I was in. How did I get to be so panicky about my looks at such a young age? What did I think would happen if I wasn't physically perfect? I still can't really say, although I knew then it was not to be considered.

These days I've taken a swing in the opposite direction. My husband is lucky if I shave my legs once a season, and I've completely given up wearing make-up. My eleven-year old self would squeal in horror to see me now in shorts, and yet in most ways I feel better about myself than ever. I certainly haven't gotten any prettier, I've just let go of the crushing weight of self-judgment I carried around for years. Now I really can enjoy it when a little sunshine makes my cheeks glow, or a certain top accentuates my chest, or certain shoes make me feel sassy. I wouldn't trade my current feelings of self-worth for my almost stick-thighs any day.