Those Old Adolescent Thoughts

Posted June 9, 2008 at 12:00 PM by Martinique Haller

Section: Her Health, Body Image, Her Nutrition, Weight Control

When I was in eighth grade and sitting at the cafeteria table with a group of girls, one of them sighed and said, “Maybe I should go on a diet”.  Perhaps we were talking about boys, I don’t remember. Another one agreed saying she had “kind of a belly”. I was astounded. Somehow I had escaped early adolescence without wondering if I had a perfect body. It had just never occurred to me. My mother dieted, my older sister always thought she was too skinny and despite the worry around me, I was just blissfully unaware of what my own imperfections might be.  I told her not to go on a diet. I though it sounded awful and I could not realistically understand why she would want to.  But as the other girls sat around the table pointing out their flaws as girls are (sadly) wont to do, I began to wonder about my own.  Some version of innocence had been lost that day as I realized that people might judge me for how I looked, and I’m sure I began the flawed assumption that my looks could make or break my chances at love.

I was a thin kid. I was one of those kids that bathing suits slackened on; the kind of body they hung down indecently from at age seven. Even in high school I didn’t have much concern. I played a lot of sports and was lucky enough to have a mother that worried about me eating right.  But I couldn’t escape that awful realization that I should be pretty. I had acne and was horribly ashamed of it, imagining that no one would dare touch my face because of it. When I had my braces removed I cried because I had expected that all of a sudden I would be pretty, and instead I looked like the same average, sweet, fifteen year old that I had been before.  I didn’t appreciate my love for words, my enthusiasm for justice, my insatiable curiosity, or fiery spirit that was quick to argue when I thought I was being crossed. I ignored that my desire to play music was lovable; as was the easy laughter I shared with my sisters in our better moments, or my ability to draw, or my unwavering belief that I was good enough to join a new sports team or write an A paper.  Instead, I noticed my short-comings; the ways in which I was not good enough. I excelled at noticing these things, like almost every other teenage girl does.

I navigated these feelings better into my early twenties and now, at thirty I am confident a large majority of the time. I still sometimes have to remind myself that looking like Kate Hudson or Maggie Gyllenhaal won’t improve my life and that retail therapy is a simulacrum of happiness. At one point I realized that I had a desire to lose a little weight. And I did. And the notice and attention I got felt amazing. But what felt even better was realizing that my wife fell in love with me thirty pounds ago.  I did it for me, and I feel wonderful, but I’m still the same person and it did not secure me a place in someone’s heart; I did that. I’m not more beautiful, though the confidence I’ve gained often tricks people into thinking I might be.  No one started loving me more once I lost thirty pounds.  I didn’t get a movie contract or make a whole slew of new friends in the upper-echelons of beauty.  It’s just that now I can appreciate how I look because of the choices I’ve made in working with what I have. But I also have learned to love my penchant for writing, my insatiable curiosity, my fiery spirit, and my enthusiasm for justice. I even love my short-comings.  Most of all, I’m glad that I never find myself at a table surrounded by friends who delight in finding their flaws. I know they’re still gathered around cafeteria tables and slumber parties having these conversations and I hope one day they’ll feel a little more like I do and throw to the wind thoughts of their “kind of a belly.”