Recently, I resurrected a habit that I’ve abandoned at least four times in the past three years: rising at 5:15 a.m. to head to the gym so I can get a workout in before I start my workday. I love the way I feel after a morning workout: energized, on top of my game, and armed to face the day with the knowledge that no matter where the day’s chaos takes me, I’ve been good to my body already and I don’t have to add to the day’s stress wondering if or when I’ll be able to squeeze in a workout.
While I was drying my hair at the gym this morning, I noticed another habit I’ve picked up: checking out other women’s bodies. Not in a sexual or critical way, but more of a complimentary, “God, she’s got great abs” kind of way. I found myself admiring my locker room companions on a number of different levels: beautiful hair, tiny waist, great smile, well-defined calves, fabulous shoes, excellent hair-drying technique, and most especially, fearlessness for stepping on a scale that (rudely) offers a vantage point of the numbers from pretty much everywhere in the locker room.
Then I turned my attention back to myself so I could finish getting dressed. Here’s a twisted little outtake of what went on inside my head:
My ass looks like Twin Peaks in these jeans.
I need more sleep—what’s up with the dark circles?
My eyebrows are out of control!
Immediately after the eyebrow epiphany, a woman I recognized from my previous morning workout days as a gym regular stopped next to me at the mirror.
“You look great! You used to come here in the mornings last summer, right? You’ve lost weight. Good to see you again … keep it up!”
And just like that, my day was made.
That’s one of the many reasons I love being a chick. Because unlike our gentlemen counterparts, we’re not afraid to compliment each other. We’re not overflowing with testosterone or in constant competition with each other, worrying that a compliment to someone else will make us look weak. How cool are we? A round of drinks for all of us!
But first things first, let’s go back to the ladies locker room for a second. Right after that day-making compliment, I turned to the mirror to apply some lipstick. And what went through my mind? Was it Yeah, you do look pretty good, Rebecca? Or She’s right, I have lost weight? Maybe even a little Good for me for dragging my ass out of bed at 5:15 a.m.? Nope. I’m sorry to report that it was Don’t forget to buy Crest Whitestrips at Walgreen’s. Oh. My God. The effects of that generous compliment lasted all of four seconds.
I think this might be one of the biggest mysteries of being a woman. How can we so freely compliment the goodness in others and overlook their flaws, yet cast the harshest, most critical eye on ourselves? Why do we remember the negative long after the positive is forgotten?
The effect seems to get even more intense when it comes to our bodies. Just think back to the last time you went bathing suit shopping. Or jeans shopping. Or the guilt you feel when you choose a Panini over a salad. Or the first time you let your delicious new lover see you naked. Or that feeling you have the second before you step on the scale at the doctor’s office. Wait! Is it okay if I take off my shoes? I should spit out my gum first!
As much as I hate to hear women be critical of themselves, I find a sick sort of healing comfort in it too. Because it reminds me that I’m not the only crazy one out here. I’m not the only one checking out other women’s bodies. I’m not the only one who hoped the cabbage soup diet might actually work and who also turned a deaf ear to all those warnings about FenPhen. I’m not the only one who won’t step on that scale in the locker room and I am for sure not the only one who would rather wait for a new boyfriend to either fall asleep or go to the bathroom so I can jump out of bed and put my clothes on in private.
We’ve all got our own special versions of body neuroses and insecurities, some more than others, but they’re definitely there. The sooner we realize that we’re not the only ones with insecurities and flaws, the sooner we can learn to love ourselves and just get on with our lives already. (Did I just channel Dr. Phil?)
That’s where The Naked Truth comes in. It’s step one of the process. We’ll talk about the things that have ballooned out of control to the size of Mount Everest in our heads. Like is it really so bad to be a size XX instead of a size XX? How many inches of flesh and material are we actually talking about anyway? The more we share with each other, the more feasible it will seem to climb Mount Everest. But we’re not just climbing, baby … we’re gonna own that mountain and show that bitch who’s boss. (Hint: It’s not your scale or your hips.)
While we sometimes might lament the size of our thighs or the girth of our guts, it will all be in the name of positive exploration. Maybe your Mount Everest is something you don’t want to bring up with even your closest girlfriends because you’re afraid they might not understand or that they might think you’re a little crazy. Well, guess what? I am a little crazy—and I’m okay with it. It’s actually helpful for the job. I intend to dive right into all those beautiful, screwed up insecurities that make us complex, fascinating, and divine women. I’ll start with mine and maybe once you feel comfortable, you’ll post a comment (or even publish your own story) about yours. Like mom always said, there’s safety (and support) in numbers.
I know that change doesn’t happen overnight. Old habits die hard, after all. But this body-hating thing our gender’s got going on is one habit that doesn’t just need to die: it needs to be slaughtered and dismembered, massacred in Uma Thurman Kill Bill-style.
And I, for one, am looking forward to kicking that nasty habit’s bony, cellulite-free ass. Who’s with me?
