Bad feminist struggles with body image
How long can I get away with calling it “baby weight” until it’s just weight? Not that I have to “get away” with anything. I don’t owe anyone but myself an explanations about anything pertaining to my body.
I hate that I care about losing this weight, but I’ve waited long enough for it to melt off of me like butter because I’m breastfeeding — almost 10 months. It just isn’t happening this time. I’m afraid old regular me is in the past and this is the new, larger version of me. I’m disgusted with myself that this bothers me. And, I’m kind of terrified to write about it. But here goes anyway, complete with my inner conflict, my personal biases, and my contradictions.
The hardcore feminist in me is perplexed. My deeply held beliefs that all bodies are equally valid and worthy are no match for my desire for my body to be other than it currently is. It is so hypocritical of me to think that weight gain of any kink and plus size people are great as long as I don’t have to be one of them.
The part of me that is infinitely grateful for everything my incredible human body has done for me, and continues to do every second of every day, resents my nagging requests for it shed these few extra pounds. My body grew two fantastic children and nurtured them with milk it also made. My body may be hypermobile and a little warped by scoliosis and flat feet, but she does most of what I want her to do with little or no protest.
Intellectually, I know that I am being a terrible, ungrateful, whiny, no good, very bad feminist. But I still have society’s expectations and my own expectations to contend with, and no matter what I know, I feel differently.
I can’t help it that I want to go back to what was “normal” for me. Approximately. Doesn’t have to be exact. At this point, I’d take anywhere in the ballpark of the old me.
My son was born when I was 35 and it really was kind of magical the way the pregnancy weight just seemed to disappear on its own in a few months. Take that all you Hollywood stars with your fancy trainers! It will be the same with my daughter, I thought. I’d be back to my normal size in no time.
How wrong I was.
My daughter was born five and a half years later in June of 2018, when I was 40 years old. I’m still dragging around a little over 20 pounds I wanted gone yesterday, but my body is resisting me. If I were to graph out my pregnancy weight loss journey this time around, it would look like a mountain range. I started at the highest peak and have reached a lower point overall, but for every valley, there is another summit to get over. For every three steps forward, I seem to take two steps back. What’s with the yo-yoing?
Why is this happening to me?
Maybe the better question is why wouldn’t this happen to me? It happens to the best of us, right? I was younger with my first baby. Every baby/birth is different. Our metabolism slows down with age and I am almost six years older now. Our bodies change over time. I’m busier with two kids, so I’m not as careful with my food choices. Am I getting enough exercise? Is my thyroid functioning properly?
There is no shortage of reasons why the weight is hanging onto me for dear life, but the why of it doesn’t really matter. I could have worse problems — real problems. I am in excellent health. My son, daughter, and husband are in excellent health. I literally have nothing to complain about, and yet, here I am.
I’m sure I am not alone in feeling this way postpartum, but I don’t talk about it with my friends because I know they would feel obligated to tell me I look great. They might even sincerely think that, and it might be true, but I don’t want to show my friends the weak, self-conscious, uncertain side of myself. I don’t want to tell them I’m uncomfortable in my body because I don’t want to further perpetuate the reprehensible idea that something is wrong with its current state — or with anyone’s body.
My feminist cred is quietly suffering
I want so badly not to care. But I also want to say “fuck you” to Scarlett O’Hara and her tiny waist for springing back into shape after each of how ever many children she had in Gone with the Wind — three was it? So what if she’s a fictional character. For some reason, she has been haunting me. Frankly, I wish I didn’t give a damn.
Shame can be so sneaky and pervasive. Since a few outliers are able to look like supermodels again right after their babies are born, it follows in our bullshit collective logic that those who don’t are doing it wrong. Worse, there is just something inherently wrong with them, with us. We feel shame even without explicit rude comments or looks. Then we feel more shame when we realize that we are ashamed of ourselves for no good reason.
Women do the grunt work of body shaming all on our own. We do it to ourselves and we do it to each other. That’s what’s so insidious about the societal demands of womanhood and motherhood. We don’t need others to criticize us. We have internalized the script and can impose it on ourselves any time we start getting a little too complacent in our own skin. Capitalism and the patriarchy require constant improvements: less fat, fewer wrinkles, bigger breasts, more cardio, cleaner food, more perfection. Ugh.
My value as a human woman and as a mother is unchanged by the shape and appearance of my body. I know this. I don’t value others more or less for the shape or size of their bodies — well, to be honest, I know that I shouldn’t and I don’t want to, but fucking magazine covers, movie stars, and perfume ads really fuck us up! It’s an everyday effort to talk down the voices telling me fat = bad, thin = good even though I am fully aware of their manipulative mind games.
Airbrushing is not a mystery to me. I know about makeup contouring and photo retouching. I’ve read about fat phobia and the body positive movement, eating disorders and discrimination against plus size and larger people — even by their doctors! It is outrageous how we treat people who don’t fit our definition of “normal,” whatever that even means.
In “The Way We Talk About Our Bodies Is Deeply Flawed,” a recent article by Your Fat Friend, the author discusses the inadequacies and inaccuracies of the language we usually use to talk about size, since experience is relative and one person’s “fat” is another person’s “average,” and still another’s “thin.” The writer offers terminology borrowed from the fashion industry as a possible more subjective reference point:
Clothing offered as U.S. women’s sizes 14/16 to 26/28 is referred to as “plus size,” while sizes 00 to 14 are referred to as “straight size.” Those whose sizes exceed the plus spectrum — those who are forced to abandon Lane Bryant and other plus-size retailers for an extraordinarily limited, online-only selection of clothing — are referred to as “extended plus size.” — Your Fat Friend
I don’t want to diet. You can’t make me! I can’t make me…
In college I became a vegetarian. Eating a plant based diet has always been a priority for me even though I’m not a strict vegetarian anymore. Eating “healthy” has never been hard for me because carrots always tasted like candy to me and I preferred them to many other less health-promoting foods. I’ve gone through different periods of eating vegan, vegetarian-lite, body ecology (anti-candida,) and more recently, anything that boosts fertility.
But I don’t want to count calories, eaten or burned. I refuse to buy or wear any kind of step counter because knowing me, I’d probably go off the rails, do a David Sedaris, and start walking 70 miles a day collecting garbage to beat the previous day’s count. It wouldn’t be about health, it would become an obsession. I don’t want to give up cheese. Or chocolate. I’m OK with those obsessions.
Is this the definition of the word impasse? I want things to change, but I’m willing to do very little to change them. Yeah, impasse it is.
There are new tools like Noom constantly bombarding me everywhere I go online, but I don’t want to hear that I am doing something wrong. I think that is shame talking again. Learning that I need to change something makes me very, very tired. The inertia I feel in my bones about more change is overwhelming.
I already eat well. I already go for a walk almost every day. I go to my beloved Zumba classes two or three times per week and I try to get to a yoga or pilates class each week as well. What more can I do?
The new message says that my body represents the physical manifestation of everything that has gone into my charmed life, my extraordinary experiences, and the birthing of my beautiful children.
Old me vs. new me
This is the new me. At least for now, maybe forever. New me = old me + 20 lbs + beloved baby girl who, incidentally, also weighs about 20 pounds. New me is working on internalizing a new loving message to take the place of that shitty, judgy, cruel message about what I should look like 10 months after giving birth. The new message says that my body represents the physical manifestation of everything that has gone into my charmed life, my extraordinary experiences, and the birthing of my beautiful children.
My incredible, imperfect body has been through some things and keeps going in spite of it all. She treats me well even when I scorn her and take her for granted. I owe her love and gratitude. I owe her everything.
Thanks for reading!