Skinny

As happens, when I hit puberty, I started filling out in various places. To my dismay, I was slightly on the pudgy side. Not overweight, just curved in places I didn't want to be curved (and not curved enough in others--such is life, and Mother Nature more than compensated me later on).

I remember a school friend in junior high--she was tall and very slender. One day in P.E., she patted her flat tummy and said out loud, "I wonder what it feels like to be fat?" This has never left me, because I remember standing there in the dressing room, feeling fat and horrendous. Her words didn't hurt me, I knew she was asking a rhetorical question, not even thinking how it sounded. I just remember thinking, "I'd love to feel skinny."

When I found myself, thirty years old and weighing over 220 pounds, I wondered what it would feel like to be slender, to not have the extra fat on my body. I imagined it would feel great, and sexy. When I embarked on my weight loss odyssey, I looked forward to the day I could finally know.

Now I know.

It really doesn't feel all that different.

Oh, sure, my body is smaller. Spaces I used to have to squeeze through I know effortlessly float through. I can sit in a movie theater seat with my elbows at my sides instead of the armrests. Clothes fall more comfortably. In general, I feel more comfortable moving around.

That said, I still bloat when I have my period. I still have moments, after a particularly indulgent meal, where I feel uncomfortable. I still see the flaws when I look in the mirror (though I'm really working on that). Just like anyone else, whether she's a size zero or a size twenty-two, I have the same hang-ups and bodily functions I always had.

A few days ago, I went to the opening evening of a quilt show that Mom's quilt guild is having. As Mom and I wandered around, admiring the quilts, we ran into several of her friends. I've met some of these ladies, and they know my story. They're always quite complimentary when they see me, because the changes in me are quite obvious if you go a while without seeing me.

For the most part, the compliments are benign. "You look great!" "You must feel wonderful!" I smile and thank them, telling them I'm training to be a triathlete, and feeling really strong.

But one of Mom's friends couldn't stop going on about how "skinny" I am. How wonderful it is that I'm skinny. I was uncomfortable--this lady is, herself, quite thin, and has made comments to Mom before about finding fat "disgusting" and horrible. Her repeated compliments on my skinny state made me cringe, even as I felt like laughing a little bit. I'm not skinny. I'm curvy in the hips and I have a bubble butt that I actually quite adore. I have some serious muscles in my legs and arms, the same thick-ish neck I've always had (but I like it more these days). I am, of course, much smaller than I was eighty pounds ago. But I would never describe myself as being skinny.

It made me think. So much pressure is put on women to fit the cookie-cutter ideal society holds above our heads. I'm actually getting a little tired of thinking that skinny and slender and thin should be the goal. (And if anyone ever uses the word "thinspiration" in conversation with me, I might hit them--I hate that word.)What about strength? Ability? Mobility? When I think of the best compliments I've been given by my trainers, I recall less and less G. the Meanie telling me, "You're tiny now!" and think more about M. the Reasonable telling me I'm gazelle-like. Strong, graceful. That means more than any remark about my size--though I still love that he once said to me, "Your body has gotten quite...shapely."

Tell me I'm strong. Tell me I'm fierce. Just please, don't call me skinny.