Sitting at my dining table, eating Cheez-Its, I ponder the annoying but still pervasive issue of fat. My fat.
OMG really? At 22 I’m not in love with my body and over all the miserable self-consciousness of 10th grade? Alas, no.
I can’t believe I don’t love my body yet. If the topic of body image sounds passé and tired, that’s because it should be, but painfully is not. I seriously thought I was at peace with my body but realized I wasn’t after hearing Lily Myers’ poem “Shrinking Women”.
I wanted to cry after hearing it, and not because my mother ever made me feel guilty about eating. She didn’t need to.
The sight of Miranda Kerr airbrushed beyond her initial perfection still manages to put a damper on my self-esteem, inspiring me to put 18 snuggies over mycurves fat rolls. My mother, with enviable cavalier, has said more than once in her wise timbre: “I stopped hating my body years ago.” Well, mom, that’s also because you’ve gotten a lot skinnier. And I can’t seem to locate the switch that you flipped that turns self-loathing into love.
I find myself swinging between the desire to starve myself and the attitude of “Fuck it, I’m going to eat 30 Reese’s peanut-butter cups dipped in spicy cheese.” (I’ve switched from Cheez-its to popcorn writing this). I struggle constantly with settling at a healthy medium for my attitudes towards my self and my eating. I find myself talking about my ambivalence towards the paradigm society has constructed for us, hating it, discussing it, but not finding anything to actually do about it. I hate the structures even as I work to make them sturdier.
But guys, I don’t just love eating food. I love grocery shopping. I love coming home and unpacking the brown Trader Joe’s bags, filling the cupboards with cans, jars; the fridge with cartons and frilly greens. I love hunting down that perfect corn chowder recipe and whipping up chocolate chip cookies, the same recipe I memorized in 7th grade. I love standing next to my dad at the sink while I chop strawberries. I love sitting down with my mom, dad, and brother and eating lentil soup and a fresh loaf of my mom’s bread.
This love (or obsession) becomes problematic around the holidays, precipitating the infamous ‘winter body’.
“Wait, it’s 79 degrees in LA today?? Hmm, I could wear shorts or I could get in the bath and cry-sing Adele…”
Yeah, you know the one.
The impending arrival of this pale, jiggling mass has prompted a resolve, however flimsy. In my mind, winter body ’13-’14 is going to be bangin’. No more hiding under 3 pairs of tights and a sleeping bag I cut armholes in. I am making a conscious, diligent effort to make this year’s winter body, my healthy pre-spring body! Will this last? Have I already failed (snack 3, I’m ready for you)?
Only time and a 2nd, 3rd, and 4th juice cleanse will tell.
Stay posted for a run-down of how the first one went.
Love,
Justin
Justin
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