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I am the daughter of a woman who was on a diet my entire childhood. She was fat. Well; in truth I don't remember her ever actually being fat, but she was convinced she was fat, and didn't hesitate to say so. She also never hesitated to point out how skinny I was, and how lucky I was to be naturally thin. I didn't think much of it, as it required no special action on my part. It just was. And worrying about it---as my mother did---seemed somehow vain and frivolous, to me.
I gained a lot of weight when I was pregnant with my daughter. Forty pounds, in fact, which maybe doesn't sound like a lot, but I'm pretty small-framed and trust me, I was whale-like. I loved every ounce of it; it felt so different, and I was so delighted to be growing a human (like magic!) that I was unbothered by my new shape. But my dad and stepmom came to stay with us after the baby was born, and one day my father gave me a funny look as I descended the staircase. When I asked him why, he said he just couldn't get over seeing me so heavy.
I went into my bedroom and took a look at myself in the mirror and experienced my first wave of loathing at what I saw. (And yeah, I was about three days post-partum and my father really didn't mean any harm.) I was 27 years old, which means I probably got 22 more years than the average American female before I had that landmark experience.
The pregnancy weight came off, and then I had another pregnancy, and then that weight came off, and then thanks to having two very small and demanding creatures I actually hit an all-time low (both medically and psychologically) and was at my skinniest adult weight for a while. And then I got divorced. And then I had a hysterectomy. And then I got, um, older. And bit by bit, a few extra pounds snuck their way onto my body. Mostly onto my lower half.
And then, one day I realized I'd stopped looking at myself in the mirror, because the revulsion I felt at beholding my dimpled thighs and sagging ass was just too much. I systematically just stopped caring about what I look like. Sure, I would still dress up for a special occasion, or whatever, but I would just ignore what I saw in the mirror. Because if I studied it I would invariably come away thinking, "Old. Saggy. Heavy. Ugly."
Now I'm the mom, and I have a naturally-skinny gazelle of an adolescent daughter. I have tried to be very careful in how I frame what we've been doing here. I am not dieting because I'm "fat," I'm "working at establishing a more healthy lifestyle." The goal is not "lose ten pounds" but that "losing ten pounds is a guideline towards figuring out my healthiest weight."
She's not stupid, of course. She knows I'm unhappy with how I look. She's also (somewhat proudly) told me that a girl on the bus told her to "Eat a damn sandwich already," so yeah, the American beauty standard has been pretty well transmitted to her regardless of what I say.
My daughter loves to wear skinny jeans, and they're adorable on her, mostly because she is adorable and I think of skinny jeans as being young and cute, anyway. When I told her I was going to get myself some skinny jeans (have a pair tailored into skinny jeans, actually), I waited for her to tell me that I was too old. Instead she was thrilled. "That's so cool, Mom! I can't wait to see them!"
The plan was to "reward" myself with the skinny jeans after the challenge. But after being stuck for so long and then feeling like I'd had a breakthrough and losing five pounds, I'd gone ahead and taken the jeans in question to the tailor. They fit me now, but will probably fit a little better five pounds from now. Anyway. I brought them home and tried them on for my daughter while she cheered.
"Here, try it with your tunic top and see how you like them," she ordered, handing me the long top I'd purchased specifically for my "new" jeans. I put the top on and turned to look at myself in the mirror. And gasped.
"I look so thin," I said, without thinking.
She cocked an eyebrow at me. "Mom, you are thin," she said.
