We women are some of the most interesting, complex, enigmatic, confounding, yet amazing creatures around. I can say that, having just come home from a small pilates class, where I found myself really tuning into each of them in the dimmed light that Sabine prefers for her low-key classes. What is even more baffling about us is that we are often most converse with our own selves than we are with anyone.
I listened as a few of them chatted away while we held poses for isometric strengthening. Here we were, 'building our core' and toning our little hearts out, and they were discussing, with great lavish and rapture, the merits of an eggnog that can only be bought right over the state line into North Carolina that is all fresh, all natural, and all 'pack on the pounds' delicious. I took mental note of their suggestions because now I too, was 'in' - hook, line and sinker, for this bit of holiday nirvana. They debated whether you add brandy or rum, and then Sabine piped in about something that started with a "D" that now had my curiosity piqued. I will have to put my pursuit of this decadence on hold due to my disciplined eating regime of late, but that is for another story.
Another example is a friend I had one time that would go through fashion/women's magazines and put sticky notes throughout where she found various body parts/hair/eyes/bone structure that she wanted. This same friend struggled with her weight. She had been working hard to make a change. And yet, she would file away image after image of impossibility. She made repeated deposits into the bottomless 'one-size-fits-all' beauty wishing well.
A side note to all Dads (the one or two that might EVER drop in here at all...): Glean this bit of wisdom from me as I have done a bit of informal, independent polling of random women - if you have a daughter, TELL HER SHE IS BEAUTIFUL. She needs to hear it. I cannot begin to tell you how many women I know, women who have either gone down the route of eating disorders or food addictions, or gone the route of burning through man after man who treated them badly, were NEVER told they were beautiful or pretty growing up. TELL HER SHE IS STUNNING. Compliment her hair or her eyes. Say SOMETHING. JUST TELL HER.
(stepping down from the soap box)
I too, have had more than my share of ridiculous, self-denigration. Years ago, in a period of my life where body image and other issues battered me like a Category 4, I would scavenge for the box of the 'skinny clothes' and subject myself to outfit after outfit, sometimes not even being able to see the disaster I was attempting through the angry storm brewing in my eyes. I knew they wouldn't fit. Still I waged a war against my own self-confidence. An autoimmune disfunction of the spirit.
I think milestones for women can be places where they find themselves becoming their own worst judge and jury. As I approach one such milestone, I am no different. I had determined around my previous birthday that as I approached forty, I would do so with as much grace and enthusiasm as I could gather. I would have a positive outlook. My resolve began to flag about a month ago, probably due to much larger issues at hand, and I found myself thinking 'it's all over' as I approached my fourth decade on the planet.
Just yesterday I was hit with one of these moments of sheer insanity after contemplating an upcoming New Year's 80's Prom party and then a vigorous frolic to an old favorite from back in the day: 'Go get your old prom dress from junior year. And try it on.' "Oh, come on. Are you serious?" my rational voice within countered. Before I could muster another objection, I found that my feet were trodding the steps to the basement for the 'blast from the past' box. Oh heavens, what was I doing?
Back in the bathroom, I held up that 'hot little strapless red number' that I had chosen in 1988. I still have my prom dresses because I chose to have my Granny make mine. Not a popular choice then, but twenty-two years later, I have all my dresses made my her hands and I couldn't be more thankful.
As I held it up and took one last look at its small waist circumference, I dove in, literally and figuratively without another moment to chicken out. So far, so good. It was on. Next was the feat of getting the zipper up. So I turned, reached, and ever so slowly pulled that old zipper.....up.....and up.....and up.....to the very top of the dress. It was snug, but not uncomfortably so. I stopped and stared as the thought, "Is it really on my body and ZIPPED?" bounced off my reflection in the mirror.
Sometimes the destructive fixations that we put ourselves through can tear us down to the very core.
This time my blip of delirium turned in my favor.
I rocked that red dress.
A dress worn in 1988.
Just what I needed to keep moving forward in the direction I am headed.
