It started today when my c-section scar talked to me. It said, "Now Julie, think about it. You're 32 years old. Katy Perry is only 25. She hasn't had any children. She is a pop star. She is allowed to wear bikinis and Daisy Dukes. Your days of bikinis and Daisy Dukes are long gone, my friend."
So I hit my c-section scar really, really hard for saying that. Which only ended up hurting me, but what vengeful act doesn't eventually end up hurting us, anyway?
Yep. It started with that mean ol' c-section scar and carried on into my commute. I was listening to throwback Summer Jamz on some old skool radio station, and began reminiscing about what those three lovely, freedom-soaked months used to mean when I was a kid.
In childhood, it meant losing track of day, time, hour because we were just living. Unless you were one of an unfortunate breed of child who was left responsible for adult tasks (and you're probably in therapy about that now), summers in childhood meant no bills, no taxes, no work, no nothin' but playing and the occasional sunburn or street fight that could mess up your mojo for a night. I can still smell the crackling hay bales of county fairs, hear the crickets slow fade-up in the bushes while we played games with strange and sometimes twisted rules in the streets, and feel that satisfying burn of pool chlorine sizzling under my raw eyelids upon the 5th straight hour of summer swimming.
The early teen years brought with them a new excitement altogether to look forward to: BOYS. As I got older and curvier, losing my baby fat and gaining various insecurities at lightning fast speed, the whole summer soon became one massive game of "Who can be the most obsessed with a guy and least present in the moment with your friends all summer?" Unfortunately, my summer crushes usually consisted of nothing more than lots of themed mix tapes about the Boy and late-night crank calls.
I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize for the sudden increase of high-pitched giggling hang-ups received by parents of teen boys in central Marin County, CA. in the late-80's and early 90's. That was my bad.
And then came MTV Spring Break. It was my junior year, 1994. Something in my brain short-circuited and imprinted this warped belief that in order to enjoy summer, I had to have a "bikini-ready body." The US media (and the majority of Americans who imbibe in various forms of media) have almost uniformly decided that women are GROSS unless they look like some variation on Jessica Alba, Halle Berry or Angelina Jolie.
American women torture themselves to whip their bodies into shape in incredibly limited time frames. Those celebs all "got their bodies back" (where did those bodies go for pete's sake?) in a few short weeks after having their babies. They're also incredibly rich, famous, and get paid to be in crazy good shape with personal trainers and chefs. Thus, they soooooo don't count as representin' the average American woman's body and journey with keeping in shape. But my teenage brain didn't want to hear that staying thin and lean would require discipline, time, and fortitude. I was too busy thinking about how I could binge and purge my way through adolescence and young adulthood to keep lookin' good.
Yes, since that momentous Spring/Summer of '94, wading through "bikini season" with some semblance of joy has proven to be an annual game of Russian Roulette:
"Did I count carbs enough this winter? Clock in enough hours on the elliptical? Do I have a muffin top or (gods, no) the dreaded FUPA?? OMFG, I have cellulite this year! Ok, I look somewhat normal this year. Wait, if I put spanx under the suit, will that look weird? (yes) Wow! I actually look presentable this year! Ok, that lasted 5 minutes, now I look disgusting again. Uggggh, I HATE my body. I HATE MYSELF!"
And so, here we are. Years of therapy. Years of getting support and love from friends, family, and an amazing husband. Going through the life-changing experience of motherhood. Training and working ad nauseum on self-improvement programs and degrees galore. Swearing off US, InTouch, and OK! magazines with their vicious photo spreads baring BEST AND WORST SUMMER BEACH BODIES for me to compare and contrast my fluctuating figure with. And all for what? To see a commercial for adorable bathing suits, or worse, see the adorable bathing suits right in front of me at Forever 21 (yes, I shop there, so laugh and get it over with already) and despise myself for not being hot enough to wear one?
"I've looked good before. I can do it again. I used to look great in a bikini. Yeah, that was 2005, Julie. But, but, I'm working out again and eating "clean"! I should already look good enough! But, remember when you gained all that weight during pregnancy, darling? You couldn't get the food in your mouth fast enough...and now you wanna fit into the same bathing suit that super sexy 22-year-old is trying on? Good luck, sister. I'll see you in the sarong isle."
Cruel, cruel summer indeed.
I see stories about people who've lost control of their bodies to paralysis or accidents, and I think "Julie, you selfish, selfish ass. Look at this person. They would give anything to have your working body. And you're disrespecting it everyday." Basically, I punish myself for having the body I have, then I punish myself for not loving the body I have. I'm into masochism, I guess.
I know this all started before my teens, with warped and mixed messages my mother directly and indirectly told me about body image: "Thin is acceptable, overweight is not; sexiness will get you in trouble with men, fatness will keep you safe; being skinny will make people say nice things to you, being heavy will make people tease you." For me to wade through life thus far and not have done more destruction to my body is actually pretty cool. But, my constant barrage of insults and criticism is not something I'm willing to pass on to Lucy.
AND SO...for no other reason than to prove that our bodies are amazing, magical, beautiful things, and if we keep them healthy they will often last very long...I will wear a bathing suit this summer. And not bitch, moan, ask Glenn if I look gross, or start quietly whipping myself emotionally for daring to bare my legs in public. No, I will wear the freakin' suit because Lucy deserves to have a mommy who loves her body and isn't afraid to let it see the light of day.
TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: PLEASE. If you identified at all with this post, read Geneen Roth's "Women Food and God"! It is literally the best book I've ever read to counter all these self-defeating things we say to ourselves and our bodies.
TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RADIO RX: "Bootylicious" (Destiny's Child)
