Well, it’s official. I wear bikinis. I weigh a cheeseburger or two over 200 pounds, and I wear bikinis in front of other people. It started with family, but now a few of my close and more skin-tolerant friends have been subjected to the display. And you know what? No one has puked yet at the sight of my stretch marks and extra jiggle. They notice. They say something, because size 16 women who have had twins do not wear bikinis most of the time, so it’s worthy of note. Also, they know me well enough to know that if they said nothing, I would assume that they were horrified. I can read more negative stuff into someone’s silence than anyone else I know. It’s a gift.
Last summer I wore a swim dress. Yeah, that skirt kind of bathing suit, the kind that covers as much of the body as it is possible to cover while still calling the garment a bathing suit. I think maybe in a weird way, I would look fatter in a swim dress at this point than I do in a bikini. By just putting it all out there, well, it’s just out there. Under a swim dress, it would look like I was trying to hide something.
I’m done hiding.
A couple of nights ago, I put on one of my new bikinis and took some photos with the timer function on my little point-and-shoot camera. I know what I look like—my bathroom has floor-to-ceiling mirrors, so every time I get out of the tub, there I am (seriously, what crazy person thought that was a good idea for a master bathroom?!)—but that image in the mirror doesn’t always translate to photos. I often see photos of myself and gasp in horror, wondering who the hell that fat old lady is and what she’s doing wearing my clothes. So before I lined up a photo shoot with my sister to do a “Swimsuit Edition” of this blog, I wanted to make sure I was really ready to show the world photographs of my body (where by world, I mean the 100ish people who read this blog, most of whom already love me).
The photos were great. They show what is. Strong muscles and a healthy body under a generous layer of fat. A woman who has given birth and shows the scars. It’s not scary or horrible. It’s a very average kind of body. Compared to how I looked a year ago, I look awesome. Compared to women who usually wear bikinis, I look like a whale. But I am so very done comparing myself to other women. Done. If I can forget what I know (or what I think I know) about how I’m “supposed” to look, it is so much easier to feel beautiful and comfortable in my skin.
In a weird way, wearing a bikini makes me less conscious of my fat. In my swim dress last summer, I spent more effort than seems reasonable worrying about whether my thighs looked fat. I weighed 230 pounds. It’s fair to say my thighs looked fat. But I would try to sit in ways that would keep them from squashing out and looking bigger, or I would just bypass the issue and stay standing, or recline so I could arrange my legs in the classic “one leg slightly more bent than the other” pose that somewhere along the line women learn is the most thigh-flattering. In the swim dress my thighs were the only part of me that anyone could see, and they’re not my best feature. In my bikini, everyone can already see everything. I am almost naked. What’s the point of trying to pretend I am not fat? I am exactly the size I am. Who cares?
This bikini experiment has been one of the most liberating and empowering things I have ever done for my body image. If you’ve ever even remotely considered it, and even if you haven’t, I encourage you to find a bikini.
Buy a bikini. Rock your bikini. Because our bodies are beautiful. If you feel sexy and gorgeous in your bikini, you ARE sexy and gorgeous in it. I believe that with my whole heart. Nothing is as beautiful as confidence and self-love. Good posture, a smile, and a look in your eye that says, “You wish all of this was yours.” That is all you need. You don’t need to lose 15 or 30 or 50 pounds to wear a bikini. You just need to lose self-loathing. Losing weight is way easier, but until you love yourself, you will never be thin enough or young enough or pretty enough. The minute you know you are beautiful, you are enough. Just as you are.
So be on the lookout later this summer for the Pam-a-rama ding dong Swimsuit Edition. I’m not going to post my no-makeup, post-shower test shots done in crappy lighting with a consumer camera on a 10 second timer, even though they are totally hot. Because I am fabulous and a diva and only professional photography can properly capture what I am trying to convey. But rest assured, bikini shots ARE coming to this blog. Soon.
Showing posts with label weight loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label weight loss. Show all posts
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Bye bye, bait-and-switch
I hit a big weight loss milestone this week, or two actually. First, I am halfway to my goal. I’ve lost twenty-eight pounds. Twenty-seven to go. But the bigger milestone for me is that this week I weigh what I weighed when my husband and I got engaged. Not quite yet down to what I weighed at our wedding, a weight that was achieved using unhealthy means when my dress arrived just a bit too tight, but I now weigh what I weighed when he decided that I was the girl for him. I know he doesn’t value me for my waistline. I know he loves me and thinks I’m beautiful at any size. But there is still something comforting to me about being back at the size I was when we were dating.
It happened gradually. A pound here, a pound there. Eating more frequently at restaurants. Making a meal because we’re a couple, when I would have had a bowl of cereal if I had been alone. Having evil things like Doritos in the house because he likes them. Watching more TV than I otherwise would, an activity that just goes so darn well with snacking. And age, and hormonal changes, and popping out a couple of kids, and eating leftover Kraft mac and cheese off of their high chair trays, and getting takeout pizza at the end of exhausting days, and eating too much McDonald’s because they had Batmen or My Little Ponies in the happy meals. It happens. It happened.
This summer will be our 9th wedding anniversary. In those 9 years, not including the unhealthy wedding weight loss that came back on almost immediately, I gained nearly 30 pounds. A few pounds a year. Never really noticeable at any given point. I am blessed with a body that can hold quite a bit of weight. I gain all over, and stay proportionate. So my comfy jeans became my regular jeans, and I got some new comfy jeans, and a few years later, they became my regular jeans. While it’s certainly covered under “for better or for worse,” perhaps marriage vows really need a “for thinner or for fatter” clause, because I know I am not the only one who got married and then found themselves buying bigger and bigger comfy jeans. Hubs was on the same trajectory, and had gained about 20 pounds over the years. He recently lost a bunch of weight too, after a cardiologist scared the bejeezus out of him. He is actually now a little below what he weighed when we got married. He lost 25 pounds in 2 months. Men suck. It’s not fair. But moving on.
I’m thrilled about my weight loss, because I know I am doing it in a healthy way, and I know it is lowering my risk for all kinds of crap. I also admit that looking better is a very nice plus. But it’s bringing up some baggage. I never realized it, but I guess there was a part of me that felt like I had pulled a bait-and-switch. “Oh, honey, you know that pretty girl you married? Yeah, she’s gone. I ate her. You get me instead.” Weight loss has highlighted how much of my concept of my own value is tied up in physical appearance. It’s not something I like knowing about myself. I hope it is something I can avoid inadvertently teaching to my daughter. And my son too, of course, but I think of this appearance = value issue as primarily a woman thing in our society. I hope I can teach my daughter to love and value herself for what is inside, and I hope I can teach my son to value women for what is on the inside too. Like his dad.
Maybe if I keep teaching it to them, some day it will sink in for me.
And now, for your viewing pleasure, some photos of my trip up and down the scale. It was easy to find photos at 8-10 pounds thinner than my peak weight, but there are almost no photos of me at the very top of the mountain. The only ones I could find were from the Maryland Faerie Festival last year, complete with kooky dreads and headpiece, but it will still give you the idea.
It happened gradually. A pound here, a pound there. Eating more frequently at restaurants. Making a meal because we’re a couple, when I would have had a bowl of cereal if I had been alone. Having evil things like Doritos in the house because he likes them. Watching more TV than I otherwise would, an activity that just goes so darn well with snacking. And age, and hormonal changes, and popping out a couple of kids, and eating leftover Kraft mac and cheese off of their high chair trays, and getting takeout pizza at the end of exhausting days, and eating too much McDonald’s because they had Batmen or My Little Ponies in the happy meals. It happens. It happened.
This summer will be our 9th wedding anniversary. In those 9 years, not including the unhealthy wedding weight loss that came back on almost immediately, I gained nearly 30 pounds. A few pounds a year. Never really noticeable at any given point. I am blessed with a body that can hold quite a bit of weight. I gain all over, and stay proportionate. So my comfy jeans became my regular jeans, and I got some new comfy jeans, and a few years later, they became my regular jeans. While it’s certainly covered under “for better or for worse,” perhaps marriage vows really need a “for thinner or for fatter” clause, because I know I am not the only one who got married and then found themselves buying bigger and bigger comfy jeans. Hubs was on the same trajectory, and had gained about 20 pounds over the years. He recently lost a bunch of weight too, after a cardiologist scared the bejeezus out of him. He is actually now a little below what he weighed when we got married. He lost 25 pounds in 2 months. Men suck. It’s not fair. But moving on.
I’m thrilled about my weight loss, because I know I am doing it in a healthy way, and I know it is lowering my risk for all kinds of crap. I also admit that looking better is a very nice plus. But it’s bringing up some baggage. I never realized it, but I guess there was a part of me that felt like I had pulled a bait-and-switch. “Oh, honey, you know that pretty girl you married? Yeah, she’s gone. I ate her. You get me instead.” Weight loss has highlighted how much of my concept of my own value is tied up in physical appearance. It’s not something I like knowing about myself. I hope it is something I can avoid inadvertently teaching to my daughter. And my son too, of course, but I think of this appearance = value issue as primarily a woman thing in our society. I hope I can teach my daughter to love and value herself for what is inside, and I hope I can teach my son to value women for what is on the inside too. Like his dad.
Maybe if I keep teaching it to them, some day it will sink in for me.
And now, for your viewing pleasure, some photos of my trip up and down the scale. It was easy to find photos at 8-10 pounds thinner than my peak weight, but there are almost no photos of me at the very top of the mountain. The only ones I could find were from the Maryland Faerie Festival last year, complete with kooky dreads and headpiece, but it will still give you the idea.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Self-love vs. the belly
Despite my roller coaster ride on the upper end of the BMI scale, despite my generous nose and my crooked smile, despite my emerging gray hair, wrinkles, and age spots, I have always had a lot of self-love and confidence. I would be lying if I said I never looked in the mirror and saw something I wished I could change, but all in all, even at my highest weight, I have always thought I looked pretty good, and I have always felt sexy. And even when I struggle with self-image, I am always grateful to have a healthy, strong body that mostly does what I ask it to do.
A few years ago, pre-kids, when I was dancing with a belly dance troupe, someone in the troupe asked, “Who here likes their body?” I don’t remember who asked, or why. I think maybe it was supposed to be a rhetorical question, a sort of, “May she who is without self-loathing throw the first stone.” But I answered, “I do.” No one else said yes. These were beautiful women. Stunning. Lovely. Most were younger than me and prettier. All of them were thinner than me. I remember being completely shocked. I have since come to realize that I have an unusually high level of self-esteem for a woman of my... um... generous proportions. And maybe a high level of self-esteem for a woman in general. But there is one thing that I am having trouble loving.
The belly.
It was never cute (well, not since college anyway, and even when it was cute, I didn't think it was). It has always been my challenge zone. And then, it housed two humans for 8 months or so. Now it looks like a war zone. Stretch marks. Extra skin. No, seriously, a LOT of extra skin. And a mild but annoying diastasis, basically meaning that the two halves of my (nonexistent) six-pack are separated from each other, leaving a hole in my abs and making me look just a little bit pregnant.
You know what would fix all of those things? A tummy tuck. I would never have dreamed that I would consider cosmetic surgery, but to be honest, I think of a tummy tuck for most twin moms as reconstructive rather than cosmetic. A crazy thing happened to our bodies, and they are not the way they were before. It’s actually disgraceful that women with more extreme diastases can’t get them covered by insurance. In my case, I am still able to work out and I don’t have back pain, but a lot of women have problems from back pain to hernias, and it is still mostly out-of-pocket to get the repair. Don’t get me started...
Anyway, about a year ago, I set a ludicrous goal for myself. I told myself that if I reached my goal weight, we would find the money to get me a tummy tuck. At the time, it seemed like a pipe dream. My weight loss goal was 55 pounds. Before this year, I had never successfully lost more than about 15 at a time. A 55-pound weight loss would put me 48 pounds down from my pre-pregnancy weight. It would put me 20 pounds down from my wedding weight, a weight that was achieved using Dexatrim and crash dieting. I think the last time I was at that weight was 15+ years ago, when I was in my early 20’s. So, although 55 pounds of weight loss may not seem like that much, and my goal weight number is probably a “before” number for most people, for me this goal was completely pie in the sky.
I thought the imaginary magical tummy tuck would be a motivator, but I didn’t really think it would actually work. Well, huh. Twenty-five pounds down, thirty to go. I am only ten pounds away from my wedding weight. It might take another year or two, but I am starting to think this might actually be possible. And then what?
Tummy tucks are an extremely common topic of discussion among moms of multiples. I don’t know many who would not get one if money were not a factor. (There are probably a few, but not many). Obviously, money is a huge factor for us. If I have a stray $10,000 lying around, and I don’t, I really shouldn’t be using it to repair my midsection. Can’t I just self-love my way through this? Can’t I learn to love the belly?
I want to. I do. I have considered getting a tattoo that celebrates the fruitfulness of my body that led to the hot mess that is my belly. Unfortunately, tattoos and stretch marks apparently don’t mix well. I have stood in front of the mirror naked, and tried to see myself as some sort of fertility goddess. But really, does anyone want to look like the Venus of Willendorf? We can admire what she represents and celebrate the divine feminine, celebrate that our bodies bring life into the world, but does anyone really want her pendulous breasts and belly? Sorry Venus, but I don’t.
I am seriously considering belly dancing in public again, exposing to strangers the region of my body that I have the most trouble loving and accepting. I am even bikini shopping, not that I would ever wear a bikini in public. But at home, I think it would be good for me to let the belly out once in a while. (And yes, they do make bikinis for hooters like mine – yay!). Because when I am afraid of something, I head into it full on. I am afraid to let people see what my body looks like now. So that tells me that I have to do it. Part of me even considered taking photos of the belly and putting them up here, but I’m not ready to do that yet. Maybe some day. With really forgiving lighting. Maybe if I find a bikini I like, I'll do a "Pam-a-rama ding dong Swimsuit Edition." Then again, maybe not.
If I ever reach my goal weight, I don’t know what I’ll do. Would getting a tummy tuck be making some kind of statement about how I feel about myself? Or would it just be repairing damage done to my body by an extreme pregnancy? Will I ever be able to look at those stretch marks and that extra skin and feel sexy and beautiful? I still have a lot of self-love, but I just can’t love the belly. Except that it brought me my two beautiful kids, so I guess I do love it after all.
A few years ago, pre-kids, when I was dancing with a belly dance troupe, someone in the troupe asked, “Who here likes their body?” I don’t remember who asked, or why. I think maybe it was supposed to be a rhetorical question, a sort of, “May she who is without self-loathing throw the first stone.” But I answered, “I do.” No one else said yes. These were beautiful women. Stunning. Lovely. Most were younger than me and prettier. All of them were thinner than me. I remember being completely shocked. I have since come to realize that I have an unusually high level of self-esteem for a woman of my... um... generous proportions. And maybe a high level of self-esteem for a woman in general. But there is one thing that I am having trouble loving.
The belly.
It was never cute (well, not since college anyway, and even when it was cute, I didn't think it was). It has always been my challenge zone. And then, it housed two humans for 8 months or so. Now it looks like a war zone. Stretch marks. Extra skin. No, seriously, a LOT of extra skin. And a mild but annoying diastasis, basically meaning that the two halves of my (nonexistent) six-pack are separated from each other, leaving a hole in my abs and making me look just a little bit pregnant.
You know what would fix all of those things? A tummy tuck. I would never have dreamed that I would consider cosmetic surgery, but to be honest, I think of a tummy tuck for most twin moms as reconstructive rather than cosmetic. A crazy thing happened to our bodies, and they are not the way they were before. It’s actually disgraceful that women with more extreme diastases can’t get them covered by insurance. In my case, I am still able to work out and I don’t have back pain, but a lot of women have problems from back pain to hernias, and it is still mostly out-of-pocket to get the repair. Don’t get me started...
Anyway, about a year ago, I set a ludicrous goal for myself. I told myself that if I reached my goal weight, we would find the money to get me a tummy tuck. At the time, it seemed like a pipe dream. My weight loss goal was 55 pounds. Before this year, I had never successfully lost more than about 15 at a time. A 55-pound weight loss would put me 48 pounds down from my pre-pregnancy weight. It would put me 20 pounds down from my wedding weight, a weight that was achieved using Dexatrim and crash dieting. I think the last time I was at that weight was 15+ years ago, when I was in my early 20’s. So, although 55 pounds of weight loss may not seem like that much, and my goal weight number is probably a “before” number for most people, for me this goal was completely pie in the sky.
I thought the imaginary magical tummy tuck would be a motivator, but I didn’t really think it would actually work. Well, huh. Twenty-five pounds down, thirty to go. I am only ten pounds away from my wedding weight. It might take another year or two, but I am starting to think this might actually be possible. And then what?
Tummy tucks are an extremely common topic of discussion among moms of multiples. I don’t know many who would not get one if money were not a factor. (There are probably a few, but not many). Obviously, money is a huge factor for us. If I have a stray $10,000 lying around, and I don’t, I really shouldn’t be using it to repair my midsection. Can’t I just self-love my way through this? Can’t I learn to love the belly?
I want to. I do. I have considered getting a tattoo that celebrates the fruitfulness of my body that led to the hot mess that is my belly. Unfortunately, tattoos and stretch marks apparently don’t mix well. I have stood in front of the mirror naked, and tried to see myself as some sort of fertility goddess. But really, does anyone want to look like the Venus of Willendorf? We can admire what she represents and celebrate the divine feminine, celebrate that our bodies bring life into the world, but does anyone really want her pendulous breasts and belly? Sorry Venus, but I don’t.
I am seriously considering belly dancing in public again, exposing to strangers the region of my body that I have the most trouble loving and accepting. I am even bikini shopping, not that I would ever wear a bikini in public. But at home, I think it would be good for me to let the belly out once in a while. (And yes, they do make bikinis for hooters like mine – yay!). Because when I am afraid of something, I head into it full on. I am afraid to let people see what my body looks like now. So that tells me that I have to do it. Part of me even considered taking photos of the belly and putting them up here, but I’m not ready to do that yet. Maybe some day. With really forgiving lighting. Maybe if I find a bikini I like, I'll do a "Pam-a-rama ding dong Swimsuit Edition." Then again, maybe not.
If I ever reach my goal weight, I don’t know what I’ll do. Would getting a tummy tuck be making some kind of statement about how I feel about myself? Or would it just be repairing damage done to my body by an extreme pregnancy? Will I ever be able to look at those stretch marks and that extra skin and feel sexy and beautiful? I still have a lot of self-love, but I just can’t love the belly. Except that it brought me my two beautiful kids, so I guess I do love it after all.
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