Today I shall embark upon the pursuit of the current
feminine ideal – at least in the physical sense.
I took my mother out shopping today, and hour after hour of tedious shoe examination she came upon the belt section. She insisted on me trying to wear a size “small” belt; and when I could barely fit into it, she gasped as if it’s the most horrid thing in the world and exclaimed that she had no idea I had gotten so impossibly fat. Granted, I’m about ten pounds heavier than I was in High School, but it is really no cause for alarm. I’m not so obese that I am putting my health at risk by being a bit more sedentary than before.
I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that each every time I see my mother from now until when I can be considered "skinny” that I will be harangued endlessly about my shameful state of being.
Its not as if not being able to fit into your favorite form-fitting shirt is ample punishment, but I must be reminded each day that I’m fat as if I’m completely oblivious to my own body.
I really do want to fit into and prance around in my skimpy tight clothing. I really do want to be able to wear a bikini without being self-conscious when I go to the beach. I really do want to have a flat belly that doesn’t have a trace of fat. It would all be better if it didn’t matter what I looked like. But it does - to myself and to the world at large. I’d really like to tell myself it doesn’t matter how much I weigh, or what size jeans I wear – but face it – it really does matter, whether I want it to or not.
All the while, my auntie tells me I need to eat more, because I’m a growing girl. Yeah, growing sideways…
Oh the irony…