where waves grow sweet

During one of many rambling conversations with my brother-in-law on his recent visit from Washington, we touched on the “ideal” body image of the 90’s. I have no idea what the context was and we quickly moved onto other topics, but the thought pricked my mind and I left a mental bookmark to revisit it later. When I had a chance to ponder it, I got really ticked off. 

You see, I was born in 1973 and was coming of age in the 90’s. The heroin chic look was in. The models looked unhealthy and unhappy, yet it was called beautiful and there’s nothing I wanted more than to be beautiful. The problem was that I looked nothing like those models. My body was fairly healthy and strong, my face full, my eyes bright. Something had to change. And it did.

Eating disorders entered the picture. As did drugs. I got too thin. And miserable. My light dimmed. That was the goal right? But I felt eons away from being beautiful. Instead, I felt weary and worn, like a bag lady weathered beyond her years.

Thanks to God, I shook the disorders and the drugs. My health and happiness returned. But it wasn’t until my brother-in-law’s comment that I realized how much I’d been manipulated. Duped. Yes, to a severe degree when I was young, but also since then – with greater subtlety – by all the iterations of beauty in the intervening years that dictate how I should look to be acceptable. It is, no doubt, the reason that my immediate response to my tight shorts last week was “I’ve gotta do something about that!” 

Before taking it one step further, I stopped abruptly and questioned my statement. “Do I really?” And for probably the first time in my life, the answer was no. My body is stronger than it has ever been. After years of needing sleeping pills, it is finally resting deeply on its own. The fatigue that has plagued me since high school seems to be losing its power. This body that I loathed and abused is not only, by some miracle, still standing but has become a valued partner to live life fully. An increasingly harmonious relationship has developed. So why on earth would I want anything but freedom for it to do its part well?

That’s what I’m coming to: Freedom as the goal. Learning to live from the inside out, rather than the outside in. It seems to me that as I deal with the inside stuff – like the lies I’ve accepted as truth and the fear that has driven that acceptance, the outside stuff – like my restrictive and excessive behaviors – will work themselves out. That internal reality will take an external shape. Whatever that body looks like… that’s the one I want.