Am I My Body?: Part One

As I write this, I’m at my lowest body weight in years. I’m happy with how I look – at least, as happy as any woman can be in the beauty-obsessed culture we all live in. I probably own twice as many clothes as I did ten years ago, because I actually enjoy putting together a look these days! I have a lot of new makeup, and I constantly tinker with my hair style. I look, if I may say so, pretty great for a woman of 71 years.

However, the questions I ask myself about my appearance and my body haven’t gone away. Is this the best it’s going to be!? At what point will I say the heck with it and let the whole clothes/hair/makeup routines go? Should I lose any more weight? At some point about ten pounds ago the excess skin on my lower abdomen became something I was very unhappy with. How unhappy would I have to be with my current body and face to consider surgical changes?

And most important of all, how did I get here in the first place? I’m going to spend a lot of time this month going back through my body history, and sharing them with you as I go. Lots of years and lots of pounds to over, so through September I’ll be posting this story weekly.

I was not overweight as a child. If anything, I was underweight. I was short, with a small frame, long blond hair, and a very pretty face. I began growing breasts at about the age of 11, which was a little early back in 1965. My mother didn’t want to buy me a bra, because she told me I wouldn’t get breasts until I started my period. One of the many, many things she was wrong about. I didn’t get my first period until the day before my 13th birthday. By then my breasts were pretty good sized. They were never out of proportion, but I definitely had them.

By the time I was 15, I had an almost perfect size-5 body. And the hair, and the face. I had no idea back then how beautiful I really was. Because I also was very, very smart, and boys at my dumb little hick school didn’t like that at all. How is a girl supposed to know she’s beautiful if the boys all hate her? My stepfather was no different. The only messages I got from him were to not wear short skirts, or pierce my ears, or wear makeup, or lighten my hair. All of which I did, of course. Most of it went past him. Nasty and mean, yes. Observant, no.

By the time I was 17 I was definitely in trouble. During my senior year I mysteriously dropped a lot of weight in a very short time. I weighed in at 89 pounds. Even my mother finally noticed that. I was immediately sent to the tiny little local hospital for rounds of tests and observation. Looking back, it’s obvious I was developing anorexia. I certainly fit the profile. Trying to be perfect so someone would love me. My “bad boy” boyfriend (of course I had one of those) was pressuring me for sex and telling me not to go away to college. I don’t remember that I stopped eating, but obviously that’s what I did. I never induced vomiting. I just stopped eating. The hospital was an interesting experience. Rounds of barium – what a convenient substance – down the throat and up the butt both! A flexible sigmoidoscopy. (Look that one up. Or don’t. Ugh.)

I started eating again, at the hospital , of all places! I still remember their mac and cheese. I was sent home a few days later with a clean bill of health. What I remember most was my doctor coming into the room, looking me straight in the eye, and saying, “You’ll be fine, once you get out of here and go to college.”

And that’s what happened.