Some girls are naturally skinny. Some girls like to take spin classes, which I will never understand. Some girls “don’t like the taste of junk food.” I am not naturally skinny. I hate biking indoors. And I believe that on the seventh day, God created Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and it was Good.
I feel like as a girl, it’s my job to look a certain way. Apparently, I’m not the only one who feels that way. Four out of five American women say they are dissatisfied with the way they look, according to the fitness Web site inch-aweigh.com.
When I feel this way, I run, as far and as fast as I can. Today I ran one-and-a-half miles. As I ran, I listened to Biggie Smalls and wished it were okay for Irish white girls to be fat. When I got home, I had to put baby powder on my thighs.
I even have these great running sneakers since my brother is one of them – a runner, I mean. He helped pick them out for me. “These ones have great arch support,” he said, pointing to an uninspired pair of gray Asics. “Yes, but these are baby blue,” I said. I purchased them with his blessing (they also, apparently, had great arch support).
My feet have not grown since I was a freshman in high school. I am as tall now as I will ever be. But my weight is in constant flux, as a result from frequent and embarrassing trysts with both chocolate cake and the Atkins diet. I am not fat – but I know there is somehow extra of me. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I feel ashamed.
Why is it that I should feel this way about myself? Obsessing about my looks makes me feel miserable. I have cried under the fluorescent lights of a Lord & Taylor changing room; I have sat on the beach in gym shorts and a cotton shirt, in reluctant agony to strip down to my bikini. On these occasions, locked inside my own head and terrified to face my body, I have felt cold isolation. And I know I’m not alone.
Sadly, an estimated 10 percent of female college students suffer from a clinical or borderline eating disorder, according to the Anne Collins weight loss program.
That’s scary. That’s not okay. That’s got to change.
Let’s face it together: There are some very beautiful people out there who know they’re hot. But most of us, at one point in our lives, have felt insecure about our bodies. We do not see our own brilliance and beauty.
As the wise Chicago Tribune columnist Mary Schmich once said, “You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they’ve faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.”
I am only 18, and in so many ways I’m still a kid. But I’m smart enough and old enough now to look at each new day as loaded with possibility, laughter and the chance of free food. I’m not sure who I am yet, or what size jeans I’ll be over the next few years, but you know what? It’s a wonderful, intoxicating feeling not to care.
I know there is time ahead of me to change myself if I should ever choose. But on those days when I don’t mind I’m a smidge overweight, I challenge you to look past my chubby cheeks and listen to what I’m saying. I promise you I’m friendly to talk to, and I’m always up for pizza.
