We like to think that we grow and change as we age, but sometimes things haunt us for our entire lives. These pieces of who we are – or who we think we are – become a fundamental part of how we see the world, and how we think the world sees us. For me, this piece of me is my size. Even if I’m becoming more and more comfortable with my body the way it is (and learning to not hate it for what it wants to be), there is still this nagging thought that people don’t like it, and, in turn, have a hard time truly liking me. You probably won’t be especially surprised to hear that this mostly relates to how I think men feel about me.
Sixth grade. That’s me on the right.
Way bigger than the boy on the left, much to my dismay.
My first school crush was in fifth grade. By then, I was already well aware that my body was “too big.” Want proof? Check out this book that my mom kept during my elementary school days, that I filled out myself by third grade:
Third grade! How sad that little misspelled word looks to me now. I was embarrassed by that number, ashamed, and I probably wrote that to remind myself how bad it was, how I shouldn’t be okay with that. It makes me want to travel back in time and hug that little fat girl and tell her not to care. But how hard it is not to care! It’s more than thirty years later, and I still care.
Okay, let’s stay back in time for a minute. It wasn’t until high school that I really, desperately started liking boys. There were three in particular (one when I was a freshman, one when I was a sophomore and junior, and one right at the end of my senior year) who made me feel weak in the knees. The guy from my freshman year intimidated me so much, I didn’t work up the nerve to speak to him until the end of the school year. When the second crush rolled around, I was brave enough to ask that guy to the prom (he said no – but hey, points for trying). The third guy? I had changed so much by then, I asked him to marry me! (Jokingly, of course. Mostly?)
Same guy from the picture above, at our junior prom.
He wasn’t my date (I didn’t have one), but we took a nice picture.
My point is, while I’ve become a woman who is not afraid to stride across a room and strike up a conversation with a man who piques my interest, that doesn’t mean I still don’t feel he will never be interested in me because I’m fat. Isn’t that ridiculous? And isn’t it even more ridiculous that I know it’s ridiculous, yet I still have those feelings? Being me is hard, people!
We are constantly bombarded with messages that men like women who look a very specific way (which is not true, of course, but you know the message is out there – everywhere). The thinner the better, of course. So when your body refuses to be thin (or you refuse to punish your body in such a way that it becomes thin for awhile), what can you do? How are you supposed to believe that there will be someone who will like you as you are, when the media and society tells you that there won’t be – until you get skinny (and, of course, stay that way)? How are you supposed to believe that your sunny personality, intelligence, loyalty, and awesome sense of humor will win someone over when we are reminded that our physical appearance is what matters?
I’ve been told that when the right guy comes along, he’ll love me for all of me. That hasn’t happened yet, so I dwell a lot on what might be “wrong” with me. The easiest answer is my size. Because if it’s not my body, then it must be something else horrible about me that I’m unaware of. How scary is that?!
Sometimes when I write posts, I have answers, and I want to share them with you. Sometimes I’m mad or frustrated or overjoyed, and I want to share that with you. And sometimes, like today, I have no clue how to deal with things and just want to talk about them. Today is one of those days. No wise words or sage advice. Just 10 year old me, and 40 year old me, wondering if someone is going to come along and love me as I am. Hoping, wishing, wanting… and afraid it won’t come true.
