I’ve just spent the past four days wearing a bikini, shades, and a wide brimmed hat. Dressing that way always makes me obsess about my body. If I stand in just the right light, at precisely the right angle at exactly the right time of day (i.e. when my stomach is first-thing-in-the-morning flat), I kind of like what I see. To enhance the image I might partially suck in my stomach so it looks very pre-pregnancy taught. Too much suck and it just looks wrinkly, like a deflated balloon. I spend a lot of time perfecting the ‘suck’ before venturing out in public. When all the conditions are right, I’m at peace with my body. I know that there are many more important things in the world to worry about aside from this terrible obsession, but I simply can’t help myself.
At forty-four, my body probably is the best it’s ever looked, unless you are one of those people who believe that a woman is most beautiful when she is pregnant. There was certainly more of me to love when I was ‘carrying’. I was shocked, during month five of the pregnancy to discover that the huge arse in the store changing room mirror belonged to me. I was utterly repulsed. I prefer it when there is, quite simply, less of me.
Currently, I’m training for a marathon and am as much of a lean, mean running machine as I could ever hope to be. My arms and legs are defined, my butt is tighter, and the ripples of muscle across my back are impressive. My boobs are pretty good too, but I took the easy route there and paid for them.
My rational side argues that I look great, but being a perfectionist, I ignore the positives and instead seek out flaws. How can I possibly be unhappy with my 5’4” size 2/4 frame? For me, the answer is simple. As a young child, living in England, it was made very clear that there was something wrong with my body. Regardless of the purpose of any visit to the doctor, my mother would always ask whether I needed to go on a diet. As the consultation drew to a close I would anticipate the sting of humiliation and my mother never disappointed.
When I was eight-years-old she enrolled me in a Weight Watchers class. I was the only child amongst a group of adults, some of whom were clinically obese. Over the course of a few months, I lost 14 pounds. My family saw it as a great achievement but I’m still scarred by the experience.
Each Tuesday evening, my mother would drive me to Beeston, a suburb of my home town of Nottingham, and park in the multi-storey car park. At each meeting, I would stand in front of the group and my weight loss/gain was shared with everyone. I lost 4 pounds during my first week on the diet but was more impressed by the 14 pounds loss of another man who enrolled at the same time as I did. I wished that I could be like that man so that my own target loss of 14 pounds would be accomplished and I could get on with my eight-year-old life.
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