Photographs, memories, acceptance.
A while back I had a photo shoot for my biz/website.
As I looked through all the shots, I found myself drawn to my size, my wrinkles, and the way the bump on my nose looked really big if I was turned a certain way.
And that reminded me of a conversation I once had with my mother.
I was living in California at the time, and I had come back to NJ for a visit. I was staying with my folks, and one afternoon my mom and I grabbed a bunch of old family photo albums and took a trip down memory lane.
Every once in a while she'd look at a photo of herself and, seemingly shocked, say: Wow; I looked really good then, or I used to obsess about my hair (or weight, or size of my nose), but I look pretty damn good. How strange.
At the time, my mother was in her early 60s, and I'd often hear her put herself down ... focusing on her wrinkles and the way her lipstick would "feather" into the lines around her mouth, and how her hair – which was always pretty fine – was thinning. I'm o-l-d, she'd say, attempting to laugh it off, but I could tell it bothered her.
That day, as we were looking through photos, I said: Well, maybe you can stop giving yourself shit about your wrinkles, because in 10 years you'll probably look back on this time of your life and say: I looked pretty good; wonder why I was so nasty to myself?
But then, wouldn’t you know it … as I was going through my own photos after my photo shoot, I realized the thing I’d asked of my mother years before? Where did I get off suggesting that to her? I'd been talking to myself like that forever.
When I look back at old photos, I’m often drawn to how my body - which yo-yoed from relatively svelte in my teens, to overweight, to clinically obese, and then up and down and up and down from a little overweight to very overweight over decades.
But if I let myself think of what I said to my mother, one thing stands out: No matter her size, no matter the haircut or the bump on her nose: I was often struck with how vibrant, alive, and wonderful this woman looked —this woman who is me. And I remember that this same woman never felt that way when the photos were taken.
She would focus on what was wrong with her body; her weight; her large breasts; her bad haircut; the big bump on her nose.
She stood behind other people in an attempt to camouflage her bigger body; she rolled her shoulders; she made goofy faces to cover her discomfort in front of the lens.
Even if the issues we focused on were different. This was just like my mother.
And let’s face it: just like my friends.
I can't tell you how many times I've been with friends these days, and someone takes a photo, and we all look at it and say: Oh god, I look so fat. Or I didn't realize I looked so old. Or Damn, I'm all boob… (Yeah, that would be me on that last one...). And there will always be someone saying: I’ll kill you if you post that on social media; I look like shit.
And I'm so over this.
I'm over the way we talk smack about ourselves. I'm over the way we focus on the imperfections, the less-than-perfect body.
Cause, pray tell: Who says what is beautiful? And what the fuck IS a perfect body?
How 'bout one that functions, and gets you around? One that takes pleasure in great food, a good night's sleep, sweet, connected sex, belly laughs, and heart-opening experiences?
Isn't it time to fucking STOP?
I know I want to. I know it’s hard, but I really want to.
Maybe NOW is the time to stop putting ourselves down for the wrinkles, the nose, the boobs, and the still less-than-svelte bod, or whatever those perceived imperfections are.
It takes practice to say So what? and Who the fuck cares?
The weight stuff is harder because the world treats people in bigger bodies like second class citizens. But we are not simply our bodies. We are not our wrinkles or our less than perfect skin. I am not my size, my large breasts, my thick thighs, or the dark circles under my eyes.
I mean, I am these things, and I’m also not. I am the sum of all of it. But no matter what, I'm fortunate enough to be healthy and alive.
Sadly, my mom didn't get to look back in 10 years and say I looked pretty good at 63, because she died a few years after … (fucking pancreatic cancer ... ), and my sister didn’t even get to 62 (fucking metastatic melanoma) (But again, I digress ...)
It’s still hard for me. I still see notice the bigger body, the large breasts, the creeping in wrinkles on the sides of my mouth and chin, the bump on my nose. But I don't want to wait until I’m an old woman to think that the woman I am today was beautiful in her own way. I don't want to focus on the things that aren't perfect. There's too much that is fabulous and wonderful and special in this world, and I want to focus on that.
I guess it’s going to have to be like my writing: a practice.
Try this at home: Find an old photo of yourself … one where you once made (or still make) judgements about how you look(ed) in it. Write about what might have been going on in your mind at the time the photo was taken … what was happening minutes before; write about what you appreciate about that woman that has nothing to do with how she looks. What do you wish she knew then that you know now? What would you tell her? What could she tell you? Can you help each other make peace with the things that still needle at you, even though you know better? Practice appreciating yourself on the page.
