When I moved to London in my early twenties my body/food issues followed. For somebody who didn’t eat very much, I was obsessed with food. I had a new best friend, Gilly, and, God help me, she was another waif. We would stand in line waiting to be seated for dinner and she would inhale chocolate bars to keep her going. I simply decided that I’d been dealt an unfair lot when it came to metabolism. Gilly somehow talked me into joining her to model the swimwear line that she designed. The pictures are hysterical. She’s all winsome waif and despite the fact that I worked out and thought that I was eating sensibly, I’m the chunky friend who somehow wandered into the camera frame by accident. I feel somewhat responsible that her pieces weren’t a sell out.
I cringe when I think how much of my adult life has been wasted, staring back over my shoulder into mirrors and wondering, “Does my bum look big in this?” I guess the answer to some (if your peers are emaciated models) will be “Yes!” But to most it will be “What the hell are you talking about?”
I go to great lengths to prove that I’m still not good enough as far as my body is concerned. Shortly after the birth of my first child I, literally, cried for days when I was gripped by the sadistic notion of trying on my Agnes B leather pants … which got stuck half way up my thighs no matter how much I wriggled, bargained with God, and cursed. I still freeze with irrational fear if I need to be weighed and request, at my yearly health check that the nurse record the number silently on the chart.
Aside from the obvious fitness benefits, training for and running marathons has been positive in that I’m forced to eat in order to run the distances. Although I did note my disappointment to my long-suffering husband in the fact that I expected all the running to render me skinny by now. He merely sighed and remarked that I am skinny already.
So will I ever quit the pointless obsession and be kinder on myself? Unfortunately, as long as I live on the Westside of Los Angeles, it’s going to be a tough job. In this town women make a career out of being thin—not only the models, actresses and singers who obsess about carbs, but the regular people—many of whom are grappling with living lives among the rich and famous. There’s am unmistakable kudos in the school mom circles in wearing the illusive size zero. The gal who isn’t necessarily good looking still gets a nod of approval if she can slip her emaciated butt into jeans that are so tiny that my skinny sixth grade son would struggle to fasten them. Part of the answer must surely be to give up reading the fashion magazines that make me feel inferior about my shape and size and to keep reminding myself that it’s better to be healthy and heavier than skinny and sick—both in mind and in body.
By Caroline Bird
