Rubenesque

I’m not a high maintenance type of person. I don’t spend gobs of money on such things as getting my nails done regularly (duh, that’s why this is called “Chipped Polish”), brazilian waxes, or tons of clothes. I do like to buy white gold jewelry and American Beauty makeup. And web hosting. These are the only things I really splurge on.

But there was a time when I wouldn’t go outside without makeup done perfectly and hair sitting just right. I was young and cute back then and lived for compliments. Then I started having kids and getting sick and all that crap was thrown out the window. I’m at a point now where I just want to absorb some knowledge and manage my pain. But it’s not hard for me to remember what I was like back then. And get irritated with myself because of it.

Yesterday, at a family gathering, we were having a conversation about body image and society’s obsession with stick-thin women. My sister, my brother’s lady and I were discussing the idea that size 2 is achievable by every woman. This isn’t true, no matter how you slice it. Seems that when any celebrity gains a little bit of weight they’re all over the news as being fat and gourging and whatever else. Of course, all the women sitting around the table are “Rubenesque“. Just round, not obese, and most certainly not stick thin. There are no bones protruding through our clothes, believe that.

I remembered when I was younger I was very thin. But not ultrai-skinny. I exercised every day, went dancing a lot, and maintained a svelt 120 lbs. (on a 5ft.1in. frame). I had “million dollar” abs and nice arms. I was “Oh-la-la”. And I worked hard to get that way. Not because I wanted to be healthy, either. Because I wanted to be cute. Goes along with the makeup and hair thing I mentioned earlier. Even though I was that thin and short I did not fit into a size 2. My hips were too wide. I wasn’t built for those types of pants and I didn’t even consider trying to get rid of my ass. I had a nice ass and liked it that way. I wore a 5. Why is that bad?

My sister has always been bigger. But she’s tall and thick boned. She’s 5ft.11in. and has never even considered wearing a size 5. She’d have to make herself deathly ill to fit into a size 2. But some people would consider that failure. Why? Her body doesn’t conform to what is considered perfection.

My other sister is like my middle sister. Thick boned. There is no way she’s going to be able to fit into those little tiny pants without starving herself. It doesn’t matter how well she eats or how much she exercises. Her body isn’t designed for the industry standard. But she’s 17. And her goal right now is to get into a size 2. She’s currently at a very healthy weight and looks good in a size 7. But she feels fat. She wants less of her so that she can wear those clothes and fit those standards. She’s getting encouragement for this insanity not only from the media (which tells teen girls that skinny is best) but from our mother- who has never, ever been happy in her own large body.

Back to the gathering. As we were discussing this and find good things to say about our bodies, my mother chimed in. “Skinny people are prettier and happier.” She gave us all the stink-eye, daring us to argue with her. She wants my youngest sister to achieve her goal of a size 2 so that she can be “happier”. Because my mother has never been skinny, and consequently suffers from depression and has never been happy, she thinks that fitting that image is what my sister needs to be happy. She said if only my little sister would lose that weight, straighten her hair, and get her skin “problem” fixed she’d be happy. What did we think of that?

I go back to remembering now. I wasn’t happy at a size 5. But not because I felt fat. It was because I could never obtain the perfection I felt was expected of me. I wasn’t pretty unless… smart unless… worthy unless… So, I worked hard at being a failure to myself- and ultimately the woman sitting next to me. Talk about a revelation.

My sister and I were smart enough not to contradict our mother. She was spoiling for a fight and would love to be the rain on a sunny day. My brother’s lady followed our lead and bit her lip. She looked from my sister to me and just kind of sighed. She’s working on her Masters and, I suppose, has had some psychology. It kind of made me feel bad, but I shrugged through it. My sister was the first to go back to our original conversation, then I followed. We pretended like our mother hadn’t said anything.

It’s taken us a long time to get to that point. A point where we realize we’re not perfect, but we’re still beautiful. And a point where we could retreat from that rain cloud and not let her ruin our mood.