Detriment

Irrational. 

It's a word I found myself repeating over and over to myself on Saturday morning as I stood in my kitchen. I was being irrational. Completely and utterly irrational. Ridiculous even, and it's made me realize exactly how detrimental self-talk can be. You see, while I was making myself a piece of toast and a cup of coffee before I got ready to work out, I almost called myself that f-word that I promised I wouldn't.

You are not fat. You are being irrational. I shouldn't be eating this bread. Carbs are bad.

Just because you are eating something does not make you fat. Tell that to my squishy stomach. I can't believe I wasn't working out all last month.

You are not fat because you haven't been working out. You were busy. You can work out today and tomorrow. You just need your routine. Hmm, I was pretty busy... 

Working out today is not going to make you instantly skinny. It is going to help you be strong, and it will make you feel good. Working out today will make me feel good... and I need to eat in order to have energy and be strong.

You are not fat. You are being irrational. I am being irrational.

This, my friends, was the internal dialogue that went down in a pair of neon shorts while standing in a half-assed tree pose (otherwise known as my cookin' pose) in the kitchen. It's a conversation that once upon a time, I would have had out loud, in front of a mirror - until the day F asked me if he was "fat". It's a conversation lots of us have with ourselves and it's a conversation that needs to stop. I'd dump the friend or the boyfriend who made me feel bad about my body, so it's time I dump my own habit of doing it. 

It might sound silly, but self-talk is important. It's the stuff we do in the minutes before a date or an interview or while we're trying to keep ourselves together standing in the longest line-up known to humanity at Starbucks when we just really need that coffee. But as much as we make it through hard times by telling ourselves to breathe, we also tear ourselves down unnecessarily. Or at least, I do. 

Tell yourself how awesome you are today. Made it to work on time? Go you! YOU SHOWERED? Fantastic - go eat a cookie! Seriously, eat the cookie. Don't put yourself in a state of detriment. You're better than that.

Lacy

Feeling pretty is important.

Regardless of whether I’m going to work, school or the grocery store, I like to feel good. While I don’t usually pile on makeup, I’ll throw on some lip gloss or mascara and try to make myself look presentable. I think it’s important to feel good about yourself whenever possible, and while I have more hang ups than an art gallery, I usually get the job done by wearing clothes/jewelry/shoes/whatever that make me feel pretty.

It is for this reason and this reason alone that I own a lot of pretty underwear. Any woman will tell you, pretty underwear make you feel pretty. Unfortunately for my butt, it can also leave you looking absolutely effing hilarious.

Before you hop on your soapbox and lecture me about the dangers of tanning, let me assure you that I’m well aware of the research, findings and warnings that are associated with tanning. But, like wearing my fancy underpants, it makes me feel really good and it also helps me clear up some of the problems I have with my skin – so I do it. ‘Nuff said.

Even when laying (or standing) in a bed at a tanning salon, I absolutely refuse to go nudie. If you’ve ever had a sunburnt ass, you know why. I pack a pair of bikini bottoms in my purse any time I know I’m dropping into the salon across the street from work to make sure I’ve got full-bottom coverage.

Except for last week when I forgot. And then, in a moment of pure brilliance I decided to wear the lacy underwear I happened to be wearing into the tanning bed. Everything was fine and dandy when I got out. I wiped the tanning lotion off, rubbed some moisturizer in and ran across the street to finish my day at work.

My first mistake was using tingle-y lotion. I sat at work for 2 hours with itchy arms and legs, but the itch wore off around quitting time so I figured I was in the clear. The rest of the afternoon went by like any other, but as evening set in I started to get increasingly uncomfortable so I decided to have a bath. My itchy arms, legs, belly and back had long since gone but I had a new, super-annoying itch.

My butt cheeks.

I got undressed for my bath and decided to check myself out, and that’s when I saw it: a delicate, floral lace pattern sunburned onto my otherwise pasty-white ass. Red laughed at me, and the redness stuck around for about 3 days before fading to a light brown.

Lace patterns on my butt are best left to overpriced undergarments, it would appear.

Oh, and that tingly lotion sticks around: just ask Red about how red he was post-snuggles when I forgot I had it on. Oops!

Accidentally Anorexic

According to the National Eating Disorder Information Centre (www.NEDIC.ca), 1.5% of Canadian women between the ages of 15 and 24 has or has had an eating disorder.

That is a shocking number, especially considering that 10% of the population suffering from Anorexia Nervosa will die within ten years of the onset of the disease – the highest mortality rate of any psychiatric disease. As parents, women and society as a whole, we’re now realizing that children are learning unhealthy, “mainstream” attitudes towards food and weight at a young age – no doubt thanks to the fashion industry’s stick thin models, photo-shopped images and the rapidly shrinking waistlines of actresses and singers . At 25, I am acutely aware of my body image, my weight, and healthy eating practices. I also count calories, mentally beat myself up, have “I’m so fat” thoughts and consider myself to be an accidental anorexic.

How do you become an accidental anorexic?  you may be thinking.
 
It’s actually very easy, and you may have even done it before. It may have begun with the best intentions, a diet or exercise regime to help you peel off that extra layer around your tummy before summer vacation, or it may have begun accidentally through illness or injury. If you’ve ever lost a lot of weight in a short time, you may have experienced the wave of “holy cow, you look so good!” comments that boost your ego and leave you feeling a type of high that comes only from a rush of excitement and pleasure, and the next thing you know it's all you can think about.
 
I consider that feeling of "I'm so thin" to be my heroin and I experience it every time I try on an article of my clothing that is too big, or buy a size small shirt or size 0 pants. I hadn’t been either of those sizes since high school and I have totally lost myself into the obsession of staying tiny. It's an addiction in every sense of the word.
 My obsession began many years ago, as a pre-teen gymnast and swimming lessons pupil. Spandex onesies on the gymnastics mat and tankini-style bathing suits in the pool highlighted my pre-pubescent body’s rapid changes. By the time I was 13, I had mastered the art of skipping breakfast AND lunch and managed to survive. At 15, it escalated. My parents were either oblivious or thought ignoring it would be best – kind of like I try to ignore Finley’s occasional outbursts. I could control my food intake and I could control my own body.

Until I turned 16, skipped meals were the norm for me. No one noticed. No one worried.
 

I grew out of the bad eating habits and grew into myself, at 16, as a basketball player, member of committees and lead in the high school musicals. Life settled. Food settled. I settled. University saw a resurgence of bad habits and anxiety, self-loathing and body-image issues. It wasn’t until I found myself pregnant that I let go of the negativity I had held onto for so long. My body was incredible enough to support another human being: what is more beautiful than that?

Fast forward to January 2012 and I’m watching my life fall down around me as my husband and I separate after nearly five years together, but only six months of marriage. It was devastating, and instead of coping or grieving, I micromanaged my diet.

I exercised because I could control the expenditure of energy and it occupied my time and my mind. I drank coffee, ate salads and counted calories like it was my job.

My Irritable Bowel Syndrome flared up thanks to the overwhelming stress I was under, and the pounds washed off faster than you can say “separation”. Over 40 pounds lighter, I felt amazing but I looked sickly. I’ve put weight back on since then, and while I reasonably know that I needed it to be healthy, I still wish I was 10 pounds thinner.

At 5’4, I weigh in at 120 pounds. My Body Mass Index, though certainly not the best indicator of health, is on the low end of the normal range. The thought of weighing over 120 pounds sends me into a frenzy of shameful worrying. I know better. I don’t believe my value is equated to the size of my jeans or the number on the scale, and yet I’ve let that number knock me down.

The truth is that, even in size 0 jeans, the skin on my tummy is soft and a little squishy, it is painted with stretch marks and I’ve noticed a dimple or two coming on my thighs. My boobs aren’t as perky – or as big – as they once were and my thighs aren’t as toned as I’d like them to be but I’m healthy. I’m strong. Being 10 pounds thinner isn’t going to make me a better person. It won’t pay off my bills or improve my marks at school. An extra 10 pounds won’t make me a bad mom, or keep me from getting my dream job.

Not too long ago, the Canadian Women’s Foundation tweeted this alarming news: “In Grade Six, 36% of girls say they are self-confident, but by Grade Ten this has plummeted to only 14%.”

It’s time we change that. It’s time we change how we look at ourselves. It’s time to change how we look at our bodies. It’s time to teach our daughters that all shapes and sizes are beautiful, that healthy is beautiful. It’s time we teach our sons that a woman’s value is not equated to her physical appearance but mostly, it’s time we teach ourselves that.

Be strong. Be positive. Love your beautiful body.

Fat

Let me start by saying this: Reasonably, I know that I am not fat.

Actually, I am far from fat. But I have a lot of body hangups, as do most women I know. I often forget that I had a baby, and even though I slip into my size 0 pants every day, I often feel like I'm roughly the size of a rhinoceros. I try hard not to let the soft skin on my belly or the stretch marks that paint my stomach, hips and thighs get to me but every now and again it breaks me down and I stand in the mirror exclaiming words that I know aren't true, but perfectly describe how I feel:

I'm so fat today.

I promised Red I'd never ask him if I look fat - mostly because I'm secretly terrified he might say yes, but also because I think it would drive him crazy if he had to deal with my constant body hangups. More often than not, I keep the comments to  myself - mentally berating myself for my own perceived flaws - but every now and again, I've let it slip. Other than the fact that I'm beating myself up, it's never occurred to me that saying those words could have a profound impact on anyone.

Until I heard my beautiful, healthy, rambunctious three-year-old say "Mommy, am I fat?"

As heart-breaking as it is for me to look at beautiful men and women beat themselves up over the ridiculous idea of beauty that our society has created, it doesn't shine a light to the fact that my three-year-old could have possibly felt that he should ask that question.

It's the result of every time I've asked my mother, "Do I look fat in these jeans?"

It's the result of every time I've explained that I'm working out because "Mommy's fat".

It's the result of every time I've stood in the mirror and said "I'm fat" to myself, when I didn't think he was paying attention.

And it's not OK. 

I've become a part of the monster that I complain about. The monster that lets our children grow up feeling insecure about their bodies, highlights flaws and airbrushes over imperfections to create an idea of beauty that is impossible, unattainable and completely unnatural. It needs to stop.

Am I going to be able to completely eradicate my body hang-ups overnight? No. I'm not. It's going to take work, and I may never get over them. I may never get rid of that soft layer of post-baby fat that covers my belly. I'll wear my stretchmarks until the day I die. 

But I will be more conscious of what I say in front of those impressionable little ears, and that begins now.