(Recovering From) Obsessive-Compulsive Body Shame

My grandmother, who did not have time to be obsessed with her weight

My grandmother, who did not have time to be obsessed with her weight

I have often said that I’m a recovering control freak, with an emphasis on recovering. I’m much better at handling chaos in my order now; being a parent will help with that. And changes to my routine are welcome and can be quite fulfilling. I still struggle with the apparent demise of the Oxford comma, but one thing at a time…

Of course, I still harbor one gargantuan area of control freakishness that, I realize, is also obsessive compulsive, and I now tend to think that they are basically the same thing. I am obsessive compulsive about my diet and weight, which is ironic and not at all surprising, given that my mother was, too. I touched on that in these articles:

But wait, there’s more evidence of my obsession on our web site, The Abundant Home™. In order of appearance:

Yes, five articles detailing my adventures with different ways of eating in order to attempt to maintain some sort of ideal state of health, fitness, body image, what have you. I am aware of myself, and being aware is a bit like observing two different people. First, there is the rational grown-up who is laughing at herself and saying, “Sweetheart, you’re forty-something, bore two children, and who gives a rat’s ass what your size or weight is.” And I know this. But I also observe that there’s this other person, a veritable Pavlov’s dog who has been trained to respond to the seeming “authority” of the male view, which basically says that if you’re attractive enough to sleep with, then you have a value, but if you’re not, then you are the object of ridicule. And that attitude really pisses me off. And yet, it’s in there, like a time bomb, ready to explode the moment swimsuits appear in the stores.

I used to go to the movies once a week with my ex and friends. Bear with me, this really is relevant. One week, the movie available was “Shallow Hal.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to see this film, because I was afraid that it would be 90 minutes of fat jokes. But I was pleasantly surprised, and I really liked what the movie had to say about judging people based on their appearances. After the movie, we adjourned with our friend to the coffee shop across the way and discussed the movie. This friend was a twenty-something, unmarried fellow who worked with  my ex. When asked whether he liked the movie, he said no. He was hoping it would have more fat jokes in it, and he was disappointed by the feel-good message. Thank you, Shallow “Hank,” for your honesty. If only overweight women would stick to being the butts of jokes instead of having feelings.

The world has plenty of Shallow Hals, alas, but there also plenty of good guys out there with realistic expectations. Men are not the issue here. That voice inside my head that judges what it sees in the mirror and coaxes me toward obsessive-compulsive craziness is the issue here. I wasn’t born with that voice. It came from many sources, including my mother and other family members, the media, and yes, society. But at this point, that voice is my concern, and I’m the one who has to silence it. I will not lie and say it’s easy. It’s not.

I’m not the only one with this compulsion, though. I fancy I’m not as far over the edge as, say, Gwyneth Paltrow, but what if I have been? Or still am?

“I would rather die than let my kid eat Cup-a-Soup.”
~ Gwyneth Paltrow

Okay, I’m probably not that bad. My kids eat Goldfish, candy, and potato chips, for crying out loud. Whew! Poor Gwyneth… Let me just say that while I have tried many different diets, I have not tried Gwyneth’s personally. I also have never been a raw vegan, because I hate to be hungry.

I ordered a swimsuit this weekend. It’s not a bikini. I’ve never worn a bikini, even when I was relatively skinny (for me). No, I ordered a pretty polka-dot swimdress. I think I’m going to like it. I’m going to put it on and stand in front of the mirror and say loving things to myself. No, really. I’ve started saying loving things to myself every time I look in the mirror. I’m beautiful, and the rational grown-up me knows it. The inner child who absorbed all that crap about not being worthwhile if she didn’t look a certain way needs to come along now. (Sadly, I see all too easily how some women become anorexic or bulimic.)

I’ve been thinking about my mother’s mother. She was not skinny, except for the last time I saw her. She was skinny then because she was sick. She would be dead not long after that. I remember my grandmother as being big and beautiful and fat and loving her food. She had 11 children and spent most of her life cooking for them. I doubt that she cared one whit about her weight. I’ll bet she never looked at herself and thought, “Gee, Ivory, you should lose a few pounds before swimsuit season arrives!” I’m pretty sure she never owned a swimsuit. I’m pretty sure she couldn’t swim. The rooster’s crowing. Better get up and start cooking breakfast. Then lunch and dinner. And after that, there’s the gardening to do. Diet books did not figure into her daily routine. Having enough food of any kind in the house to feed 11 kids did.

I can’t promise I’ll never write about diet again (is this number 8?), but my task now is to obsess less and enjoy more. It’s also to accept myself, particularly as I move into the middle years. Most of the women I’ve known who were my age or older did not look like their twenty-something selves, and why should they? Whom are we trying to please? The answer should be, ourselves.

Self-awareness brings great responsibility. Seeing myself, if I don’t change, then it’s my responsibility that I didn’t change. I’m not going to let me down. Bring on the swimsuits!