On Good Body Image

A provocative article on self-image was posted on Facebook by a woman I admire. The article included a before and after photo with a twist: the before shot was of a young very muscular borderline-anorexically thin woman, and the after shot was of the same woman noticeably filled out with little muscle definition.

On more than one occasion in my nearly 54 years I have come to the conclusion that it is an absolute  miracle that I do not have an eating disorder or a bad case of BDD. I grew up with not one but two parents who had a dysfunctional relationship with food—they were forever gaining and losing weight—they were habitual dieters.

How good they were feeling about themselves on any given day was directly proportional to a number on the scale.

The word “fat” floated everywhere in my atmosphere.

It kept me company when I was alone.

My mother’s 2 closets held four seasons of clothing subdivided into sizes 8, 10, 12 and 14.

She, in her lifetime, has cumulatively gained and lost the equivalent of several people.

And my household was not my only frame of reference for body image. I was a little girl when Twiggy—the boyishly figured British beauty became the world’s first supermodel. Later, as a teenager, posters of Farrah Fawcett and Cheryl Tiegs hung everywhere on every bedroom wall.

They were the images that everyone aspired to; yet my body in no way reflected back any of the images surrounding me.

And had I not paid attention when I accompanied my mother to Weight Watchers meetings back in 1985 I might not have learned how to create and maintain a proper body/food balance. For me, sitting in that room with women sharing their struggles and strategies struck a positive chord: all diets fail—only lifestyle changes succeed—and most importantly: the number on a scale defines no one.

And so when I had my three daughters I became hyperconscious of how to properly model eating habits. I was determined to convince them that their bodies were flawless—that their curves and/or lack thereof as the case might be represented personal perfection.

The words “fat” and “diet” never rolled off of my lips—ever.

Which is why (unlike perhaps  a different mother) I was totally elated and proud when my daughter Briana did not think twice about raising her hand to volunteer to dance in a bikini on the Live with Kelly and Michael Show.

My daughter is completely comfortable with her body—which is both fit and curvy.

She is not self-loathing of her J. Lo, Beyonce, Sophia Vergara type figure.

Ebullience and self-confidence spilled from the television screen for a national audience to see.

A friend told me she was "brave."

I told her Briana was more than that--because "brave" is when you do something despite fear. Briana performed with no fear: she was fearless.

And when I picked my mother up from the general practitioner a week or two ago, nearly the first words uttered from her lips were According to the doctor’s scale I lost 5 pounds!

I rolled my eyes up into my head and said Oh my God--you are 83 years old—when are you going to give up on the weight thing?

Her silent reply said it all:

When the shovel of dirt hits the mahogany box--and nature takes care of itself.