This is a Post About my Body

This is a post about my body. This is a post about the relationship between my insides and my outsides, between the tangible and intangible parts of my being. This was one of the easiest and hardest things I've ever written. This is, fittingly, far bigger than I had originally intended. This is me.

I've always been on the thinner end of the weight spectrum - bordering on underweight at times. I didn't qualify to give blood until college, and even until very recently, I wasn't sure if I was over the weight limit enough to not be worried about fainting. I've also never really been 'in shape'. I've dabbled in the gym here and there and was a fairly avid swing dancer for a period of my life, but exercise has never been something I excelled at.

Picking out my body's flaws, however, is a prowess of mine. The way my stomach folds when I sit. The way my skin never seems to be as smooth or as soft as other girls'. The way my toes resemble fingers more than toes should. Likewise, food and I have had a complicated relationship for quite some time. Put simply, I am not very good at it. I forget to eat meals, then panic and stock up my plate to make up for it. I overthink the ways in which calories, vitamins, and nutrients coincide and get overwhelmed at the daunting prospect of putting together a balanced diet. I don't go grocery shopping nearly as much as I should, then end up eating out too many nights. I worry about calories and trans fats as I fill up my plate with dessert, and shove raw spinach in my mouth as though it will absolve me from all food sins. I have gone to sleep hungry, and woken up with the acute awareness of my insides curling over into themselves. I lie when my coworker asks me if I've had lunch yet, because of course I haven't, and I probably don't plan on it today. I've Googled questions along the lines of "how few calories are dangerous" more times than I care to tally. I certainly wouldn't go so far as to say I've truly experienced an eating disorder, but I don't think it's incorrect to say I've struggled with disordered eating.

A few months ago, I started an aerial silks class. For those who don't know, aerials involve an incredible amount of arm and core strength. Strength which I certainly didn't have in my skinny chicken arms. It was the first physically strenuous activity I had ever found that I enjoyed doing regularly. I quickly saw the changes in my body. At first, I was stoked about my newfound strength and muscle mass. I hoisted an extension ladder above my head that I had struggled to lift just a month previously. I saw my flexibility increase noticeably each week. I had muscles - real, useful ones - for the first time in my life.

And then, it happened. I stepped on a scale in the bathroom at a friend's party. I don't weigh myself very often - I've hovered roughly in the same weight range since high school. This time, though, the number on the scale was a good ten pounds higher than I'd ever seen it.

Suddenly, I became hyper-aware of the way in which my pants were digging into my lower stomach and the slight strain of my shoulders in my shirt.

Logically, I know that muscle weighs more than fat and that weight and BMI are not reasonable indicators of, well, much of anything. But self-image rarely speaks to logic. I don't know the standards for my body anymore. I don't know what metric to hold up to see if I'm a successful/worthy person or not. If I can't go by the number on the scale, what can I go by?

Of course, the exercise I'm now getting regularly now further complicates the matter - I knew how much food my mostly-sedentary self needed to consume in order to at least stave away the dizziness. I have no idea how much fuel my growing muscles need. I don't know how to not damage my body as much as I'm improving it.

I realize that this isn't a problem from most perspectives, given our culture's idealization of bodies that are roughly the size and shape of mine and demonization of bodies that stray from this shape. Often, this makes me feel guilty for my feelings - how could I so hate the very body that others compliment? But things look different from the outside than from the inside. From the inside, I see the strong, confident way that people of all body types walk around and I feel myself curling over in insecurity. I envy those even with bodies less "ideal" than mine, because of the way they carry themselves in their own skin. I like my body best when I'm slightly hungry, when I can feel the sides of my stomach pulling inwards as if to seal my rib cage to my spine. At these moments, my mirror probably reflects more accurately the reality of my body.

At the age of 6, my mom bought me a bathing suit with a cutout in the stomach area. I spent my entire time at the pool frantically yanking the two pieces together, too distracted to even enjoy the summer afternoon. I didn't yet have the words to talk or think about it, but somehow, even the three inches of midriff peeking through my swimsuit was enough to send my little brain into a tailspin.

At 13, I silently watched several of the most popular (and therefore, unquestionably attractive) girls in my grade crowding in front of a mirror, groaning about their flaws. These girls had meticulously-straightened hair where mine was curly and untamed. They were striding into puberty gracefully, where I was all elbows and knees and too-big glasses and awkwardly-fitting clothes. This was my first introduction to the universality of body dissatisfaction. This was also my first introduction to the fact that, if these so-desired girls had so much to complain about, I must be worse off than I had ever imagined.

At 20, in Japan, I experienced a public bath house. I entered the women's section, alone, armed with a full-sized towel to shield myself from the inevitable stares. Shortly after stealthily submerging myself, I had a revelation - no one cared. There were groups of friends there together, girls with their mothers, solo bathers of all ages and sizes. For a brief period of time after this experience, I felt great. There was something so freeing about seeing all those bodies, just out there with no stigma or shame. I wonder regularly, if places like this were more common in America, would it help us? Would spending more time surrounded by non-sexualized nudity have helped me accept my own?

At 27, I know body love is likely not something that will come easily to me. It's a goal I'm going to be working towards, possibly forever. But I also know that I just signed up for a beginner burlesque workshop and I'm freaking out excited about the journey!