I haven't posted anything in a very long time.

I've been buried under deadlines, graduated my youngest from high school, and had a whirlwind of crazy things go on in the last month. None of those things are conducive to creativity, blogging, writing, or anything much beyond drinking and sleeping... not necessarily in that order.

Today I tried on a pair of pants I bought last month at a second-hand shop.
Yes, it has taken me a month to try them on. The tags were still attached.
No, they didn't fit.
Sizes are deceptive, especially at thrift stores. Twenty years ago, at this same weight, I wore a 10. Today it's a 6. So if you buy older clothes, the sizing is all off.
This pair of pants didn't look old, but the size was definitely off. Maybe they were Aspenite pants...
Which brings me to the subject of sizes.

Comedienne Amy Schumer resented Glamour magazine's cover that named her a "plus-size" person. According to Amy, she and I are the same approximate size, which makes me like her that much more.

Anyway, that makes me "plus-size," too. At least I'm in humorous company.
Having been through a bout of anorexia myself (I just called it my skinny stage... my therapist put the anorexic label on it), I've come to the following conclusion: Plus Size is anything over a 0. DUH. If you are more than ZERO, you are PLUS (positive).
Deal with it.

In other body modification news, my dentist wants me to get braces.
I'd rather get a tattoo.

Mind you, my mother vetoed braces when I begged for them as a preteen.
"You can eat, can't you?" she said.

Now my open bite, which exerts undue pressure on my molars and makes them break (and prevents me from eating a sandwich without embarrassment), is the subject of scrutiny. I even went so far as to make an appointment with my dentist's recommended orthodontist, hoping for a recommendation of Invisalign, or some other non-intrusive option (the last dentist wanted me to have my jaw broken and wired shut for 6 weeks).

No such luck. Orthodontist's opinion? 18 months of regular, old-fashioned braces WITH rubber bands. For $6,300.

I listened, I looked, I wasn't convinced.

For $6,300, I'll go get the blubber frozen off my belly.
It would have a better impact on my self-esteem... more than having braces at 45, without question.

I had an epiphany on the way home from church a couple weeks ago. I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few things and left with a full cart and a peanut butter Snickers bar. After I devoured the candy bar, I felt guilty. (Doesn't everyone feel guilty after they eat a candy bar?)

Since it was Sunday, I started planning my diet for the week ahead. At which time a still, small voice spoke up on the inside...

You'll never be skinny enough to satisfy yourself.

I know that's true. Ten years ago I starved myself down to a point where my doctor told me she was concerned. (Don't worry, I'm not at that weight now!) Even at that size, I wasn't happy with my body. I wanted to be skinnier. I viewed anorexic women, chemo patients, meth addicts, and pre-pubescent teens with secret, shameful envy.

Today I run into people who haven't seen me since the super-skinny phase and their response is, invariably, "WOW! You look great! You look so healthy!" The first few times it happened I shrugged it off, but after enough people said it, I started to wonder... Did I look THAT unhealthy when I was in my super-thin mode? I recall a few comments from acquaintances who asked if I well at the time, but I was so caught up in the rush of finally being SKINNY I didn't examine their questions. I liked being a size 2-on-my-way-to-negative-numbers, even if my friends and family described me as "skeletal" and "bird-like." Darn it. If that was "skeletal," I liked it.

That's because you wanted to disappear. 

OUCH. I had to think about that. When I went on my 1200-calorie a day diet (or less... a 900-calorie day was a good day, a righteous day, a day for celebration), and started exercising like a maniac six days a week, I was in a state of what I now recognize as clinical depression. The church my husband and I planted was struggling, money stress was a daily fact of life, I was homeschooling four children, I'd cut off contact with my parents because we had doctrinal disagreements, I loathed where I lived, and my best friend had just moved halfway across the country. Starving myself (I called it a diet, but when peanut butter starts to play a major role in your fantasy life, something's wrong) was a way to take control of my life, which felt completely out of control. In truth, I didn't want to be IN my life at the time.

So you tried to shrink yourself out of existence.

Yes, I suppose I did. If it weren't for a concerned husband who noticed my disappearing boobs, I might have fallen headlong into a full-fledged case of anorexia/bulimia. Oh, I wasn't throwing up after meals like I did in high school and college, but I had discovered the trick of chewing and spitting... take a bite, chew it up, then spit it into the trash without swallowing. I was taking ephedrine daily, and sucking back enough espresso that when I exercised my sweat smelled like Starbucks. I spent hours every day perusing fitness and diet websites for validation and wrote down every single thing that crossed my lips.

At the same time, I was proud of myself. I praised God for the dropping numbers on the scale, even while I stifled the voice of my conscience. My whole life was wrapped up in what I ate and what I weighed. I counted the number of chocolate chips I could eat without going over my calorie limit, weighed my raisins in a kitchen scale, and had a running tally in my head of calories in vs. calories out. For someone who dislikes math on principle, those years were YEARS of mental calculations. You could ask me the calorie count of almost any food and I could tell you, without looking it up, its caloric value by weight.

Fast forward a few years, a major life change, a total hysterectomy due to undiagnosed endometriosis, and now, packing an extra 10-15 pounds around and feeling "fluffy," I find myself struggling. I no longer want to escape from my own life, and I'm no longer depressed (most of the time), but I'm still not "skinny enough," and, I have to admit, I never will be. It's like I have the wrong eyes in my head. Or the wrong body... Whose body IS this, anyway? I've never been at peace with it, not since I was 5 years old and my ballet teacher pointed out my "jiggly" thighs to the class during plies. Maybe not even before that.

I could put myself back on the high-intensity physical training program I was on, except that my post-surgery body won't allow it. I'm limited to yoga, Pilates, and isometrics for the foreseeable future, or endure debilitating pain. I could starve myself again... except I've discovered the joys of a glass or two (or sometimes three) of red wine in the evening, and I'm not willing to give it up, even for the sake of those extra pounds. As I told a dear friend recently, my "drinking problem" has trumped my eating disorder.

6 Give beer to those who are perishing,

wine for those who are in anguish!

7 let them drink and forget their poverty

and remember their misery no more. 
Prov 31:6-7 NIV

So now I'm 44, and I have an adult daughter who struggles with her own body image issues, and a granddaughter who is, as yet, thankfully too young to get the whole concept. I've wasted enough of my life hating what I see in the mirror (or only looking in the "skinny" mirrors, and fearing the scale at the doctor's office more than the outcome of any test). It's time to make a change.

Wish me well, I'm not sure what this is going to entail, but WHEN I come out on the other side I will be the first person to share the story of my journey, in hopes of encouraging and inspiring others.

Meanwhile, if you're battling with food issues, battling with body image, battling with some other unseen problem, may the mercy and grace of God be with you, and may you hear His voice in those dark places, revealing truth and showing you the way out of the darkness and into the light. Even when you don't love yourself, God loves you unconditionally.

Blessings.

Cue surgery. Almost nine months ago I underwent a medically-advised TAH-BSO (Total Abdominal Hysterectomy/Bilateral Salpingo-Oophorectomy ... say that 10 times fast), which added a 6-inch horizontal scar to the rest of my abdominal decor. BOO. I would have much preferred a belly button ring.

1950's

Most of my writer-type friends write historical romance. As such, their Pinterest pages are filled with fashion examples from various eras for the purpose of properly costuming their characters. Scrolling through those pages during this month of convalescence (with my laptop carefully situated on a pillow away from my abdominal incision) I've come to a conclusion: modern-day women's fashion is not fair to the female figure.


Perhaps I'm finding this particularly frustrating right now because my post-surgery body has required me to limit my wardrobe to loose sundresses. And based on the "swelly belly" that shows up every afternoon, and the weird flap of skin that hangs over my incision when I stand up, I will be wearing these waistless, formless, shapeless items of clothing for the foreseeable future. Although apparently the look can be quite trendy, based on this picture from New York's fashion week.


OK, yes, that outfit would disguise any number of body flaws...

So here's my wish... I wish for the day when we can all look at ALL kinds of fashions, from different eras, and choose the styles that work with our individual body types. And then we'd be able to find those styles at the store and wear them out in public without looking like we're on our way to a Civil War re-enactment or a Halloween party. Sounds fun, doesn't it?

What would be your fashion-era of choice? The one that would make you feel good about yourself and about your physique instead of hating half your parts and pieces? I'm torn between the 1950's hourglass and something along these lines... Can't you see me at the grocery store in this outfit?

I've got a perception problem. One thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of other women share.
No matter what I weigh, no matter my BMI or percentage of body fat, I never feel thin, skinny, or slender for more than a few seconds at a time.

Chalk it up to those formative years spent in ballet classes, or media pressure in magazines, TV, and movies. Blame my fear of becoming morbidly obese like several of my family members. Call it a brain dysfunction or whatever you will ... it is a point of perpetual suffering and torment. (Note: 6 years ago, I lost 25+ pounds through a combination of calorie restriction and exercise.)

This used to be sexy.

Since my grandson was born at the end of April, I've packed on somewhere between 5-8 pounds. My weight is still well within the healthy/normal range, but I'm struggling. I'm tired of starving myself and  tired of battling jealousy and envy when my co-workers eat pizza and I see friends' posts about cupcakes and treats and going out to eat.

And yet, when I go to get dressed and my pants feel tight, I experience momentary panic. NOOOOO.... I can't go back there! 

Isn't there a balance? A place of peace when it comes to one's weight and shape and size? I understand how people end up tens, even hundreds of pounds, over their ideal weight. At the same time, I fully comprehend how people can starve themselves down to 70 or 80 pounds, because no matter what you weigh, there's a lower weight to strive for. Crazy? Yep.


Anybody have any suggestions? Is there a magical cure? A lens I can put on that will make me see things as they are?

I bought a pair of jeggings. Hey, they were on double clearance at Old Navy! Who can resist 50 percent off 50 percent off? Not I!

photo by CarrieLu	via PhotoRee

Upon arriving home, I discovered my new jeggings suffer from the same ailment as many of today's pants and jeans: Over-emphasis of the dreaded unnamed body part. It think it has to do with the low-rise trend. Back in the day (how I loathe that phrase), when the waistband of one's pants actually reached one's waist, the unnamed body part was concealed.

What is the unnamed body part? It's that part of the female physique between the buttocks and the waistline, stretching from the spine around to each side. It's not quite a "spare tire" or a "love handle" because it stubbornly refuses to change size or shape in spite of exercise or weight loss.

I believe it's a primitive leftover from pregnancy, a nifty little blubber pocket added in a primitive effort to prepare for potential famine while breastfeeding.

Genetic programming to sustain the next generation in the event of catastrophe. Cool.

The last baby I nursed is now 13 years old, and the last major broad-scale catastrophe in the U.S. was during the Dust Bowl.
Not. Cool.

In my estimation, if I'm going to continue owning this piece of anatomy, it needs a name.

I ordered a mixed lot of 40 Barbie shoes off eBay use for some craft projects. They arrived yesterday.

melloveschallah via Flickr

(You know you're a redneck from a landlocked state when you get excited about mail that has an airmail sticker and a stamp from Singapore on it.)
Even as children we know there's something not quite right with Barbie. Those impossibly tiny shoes that fit on her permanently disfigured feet. The waistline that is nearly as narrow as her neck. Legs that are twice as long as the rest of her body.

(Good article here.)

Don't get me wrong. I love Barbie, and her 432 multicultural, politically correct friends, and their 36 million accessories. Barbie is the source of countless hours of creative play. Even into adulthood the entertainment value Barbie provides continues. A quick Internet search for Barbie images reveals grown-up Barbie playtime... as if some of the things we did with our Barbies as kids wasn't bad enough.

(Mine were frequently held prisoner in a "stone" dungeon beside our fireplace and fed only bread and water and allowed to wear rags. And then there was that little fling with Luke Skywalker from next door. Mom was not pleased to find them in the closet. Hey, I was 9. I had NO IDEA what was going on. And you have to wonder about the girl who tied her Barbies to the fan by the hair and waited for their heads to pop off.)

Anyway, I found pictures of Goth Barbie, Barbie with a "tramp stamp" tattoo, trailer trash Barbie, menopausal Barbie, redneck Barbie, recently paroled Barbie, teen pregnancy Barbie, and more. Those are the "clean" ones. 

Reports of what a Barbie doll would actually look like in real-life have been circulated for years. But nothing makes the reality of her distortion as obvious as the following picture from this Forbes.com report. (Click here for the full article.)

Barbie Distortion 39-18-33

Seriously, she's a little weird lookin'! Don't you just want to twist her waist around backward?
I want to see someone do the same kind of Photoshop technique with one of the newer fashion dolls, the ones with the ginormous heads and eyes like the lemurs in Madagascar. CREEPY!

Did you cut your Barbie's hair?
Ever try to curl it with a curling iron?
What was your Barbie's job? (Back in the days before her job and the tools of her trade came with her in the box.) Mine was a "bookbinder." Seriously. She stapled tiny construction paper book covers to folded pieces of typing paper.

What if some sneaky individual switched out all the mirrors in your house for the kind you see at carnivals and fun houses? (What, exactly, is fun about seeing yourself all squished and stubby?) Would you be distressed by what you saw over the bathroom sink, or on the back of the closet door if you didn't know it was the mirror's problem, not yours? 


You know what? I still don't believe them. What I see in the mirror and feel in my clothes MOST of the time is closer to that bloated form in my dream. Body image has been an issue for me as long as I can remember, even before adolescence, the result of years of ballet classes, a few painful comments made by influential individuals, and a morbidly obese grandmother. 


Mirrors (and photographs, and scales, and tape measures) lie. The truth of who you are is within you, not on the outside. Yet nearly all of us are affected mentally, emotionally, socially, and sometimes even financially by negative perceptions of some aspect of our physical being. It's backward. What's on the inside should be in control, not what's on the outside!


The next time you find yourself struggling with the image in the mirror, put your clothes on inside out. It's equally silly to wear your clothes inside out as it is to let your physical shape control your mood! If you need to make a change in your diet or exercise program, do so, for the sake of your health, but be aware that the negative feelings won't necessarily disappear with weight loss or toned biceps. 


It will take a mental diet of positive thinking and thought exercises to make that change!




Mayo Clinic article on BDD


Images via Flickr
Image from LifeDynamics.com