Some weeks ago, I was, with my DH, in a city somewhat bigger than ours. We were sitting at a street cafe, and there she was.
About six and a half feet tall, blonde, tanned, and so slim that there was a visible distance between her upper thighs in the skintight jeans.
I saw her from behind at first, and my gut reaction was a stab of desperate envy. I wanted to have such a body. I wanted to believe that my life would be perfect then.
And then she turned around.
She was, perhaps, twenty-five years old, but her face was pinched, haggard and wearing the lines of a perpetual frown. The corners of her mouth, too, showed signs of being mostly turned down.
It was, actually, a desperately unhappy face.
And suddenly, I did not envy her any more. I imagined how, twenty years from today, these lines of despair would have turned into deep trenches, or else, the whole face into a mask botoxed to the point of utter expressionlessness.
Intellectually, I did realize that that gorgeous-looking body was doing nothing to make that woman happy.
Still, there was that moment of envy and desire to be looking like her, and then realizing that my body, even if I were to hunger it down to the point of near-starvation, would never have her proportions. That my hip bones are wider and my legs are shorter, that my jaw is square and my hair is grey. That my fingers, even if they were just skin and bone, will always be short and my shoulders narrow.
Imagine the disappointment of a larva that goes to great pains building a cocoon, waiting for the transformation to occur, only to find that for it, the end product is not a butterfly, just a different kind of caterpillar.
You see, I always had that fantasy of having a perfect body. I even imagined what it would feel like, having slim, long legs, and a face with visible cheekbones and a triangular chin. Being able to wear high heels and a mini skirt, or really tight jeans.
That dream is, perhaps, also part of what is putting the hex on my weight loss right now.
I did, all of my life, believe that there would be some magical transformation occurring if I got rid of the fat. I did actually believe that I would shed the fat like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, and then I would be able to soar.
And now I have to face up to the fact that, even if I were to get down to goal weight, I´d still be that same stubby-legged caterpillar plodding along on the ground, looking up at butterflies in envy.
There is no supermodel body hidden inside my fat suit.
There, I wrote it down.
It hurts to let go of that dream. Even if I know it´s just a dream.
Letting go of it means also letting go of the imagined feeling of what being slim would mean.
But that feeling has been, like it or not, part of my motivation.I did equal it with the feeling of perfection.
And accepting now that my body will never be even close to perfect, whether I lose the weight or not, is hard.
The danger, now, for me is to give up completely. If I won´t end up perfect, why bother? Why lose weight at all?
I have to find an different answer to that one, an answer that works with the realities of my body, with the realities of my life.
But then again, perhaps it will be liberating, too, not to compare myself to butterflies any more. It will give me the freedom to explore what I can do as I am, and maybe I´ll even be able to stop putting my own achievements down, because my worth as a person doesn´t have anything to do with my weight, in spite of what they drilled into me.
The scary part is that I have been in this place before, that I had believed that these issues had been resolved by me a long time ago.The only thing that gets better every time is that by now, I recognize them, and I can draw upon the experience I gained the last times I fought these particular issues.
Maybe, just maybe, I´ll be able to find closure this time.
Before I gain back all I have lost.
Julia
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