July, 2005
Recently I turned 41. These days when I lie in bed my “leaping gazelles” rest comfortably in my armpits. When I stand, I find that my thighs are sagging, making little bulges over my knees. When I squeeze on my jeans, my waist sloshes over the waistband on all sides and the “baby-bag” barely zips into containment. Playing piano or typing at the computer, I find myself occasionally adjusting my position to improve clarity. It used to be that I came out of beauty parlors feeling absolutely gorgeous. These days I come out with a red inflamed stripe over my upper lip and on my chin. Such indignities. I knew they were coming, but in many ways I never thought they’d happen to me.
Some people believe in aging gracefully. Others believe in fighting it every step of the way. After gaining 175 pounds during five pregnancies and bearing almost 45 pounds of babies, I find it to be a major battle. I run, I lift weights, I wear pedometers, yet it persists. I’ve contemplated using duct tape to secure my thigh skin to higher regions, but the thought of ripping it off later is enough to deter me. I stand in front of the mirror and push my baby bag this way and that, trying to see what I’d look like without it. But it’s to no avail – I can’t get it completely out of sight. I’ve thought of bunching it all up and securing it with a ponytail holder, but that might look odd under slacks.
So this week I tried the avenue of wearing it with pride. My (unnamed) sister and I pulled our shorts down to the current popular low-slung style. We hitched up our baby bags and let them ooze over the waistband as our shirts rode up. Anna ran away from us, screaming with disgust. “It’s your destiny!” we called after her.
This issue is one that starts young. Last month I was assisting in a Sunday School class at church and overheard two fifth-grade girls talking. The skinnier one sighed, “I wish I still had my second grade body.” (HA!)
The problem as I see it is if I follow the path of my longevity gene pool, I’m not even half-way done with this battle. Mom says not to worry - stretch marks are a badge of honor. I’m not sure which planet she’s living on. Dad says, “If the side of the barn needs painting, you paint it.” Well, this barn needs a new roof and siding. So recently, I have found myself frequently Googling “abdominoplasty” and finally decided to go ahead with it.
Abby came in to talk last week. She’s had a tough year of her own battles, having finished her growth spurt and finding her metabolism slowing. Of course, it is entirely my fault: my genes are making her jeans tight. Her typical teenage battle with acne has also got her down – the not-so-nice side of my gene pool again.
Fighting the acne is easy: a little medicine and you are done. But how do you teach your child that the weight issue is one she’ll deal with for life. And it’s not the actual weight that is the issue – it is society’s message that the numbers on the scale are directly related to the measure of one’s worth. That’s a lie straight from the pits of hell.
“Abby, you’re beautiful. Don’t worry about the acne. Just keep using the medicine. We’ll find something that works. Besides, people really do see past it. And anyone who can’t see past it doesn’t deserve you for a friend. Keep exercising, make healthy choices. I know it sounds trite, but it really is what’s on the inside that counts. Remember that you are more than the sum of your parts.” I sounded like my mother 25 years ago. I could see it go in one ear and out the other.
The KJBSV (King James Bumper Sticker Version) states, “God doesn’t make junk.” We are warned everywhere to be careful not to get caught up in the world’s approach which begins on the outside with hopes for improving the inside. My mother says that you should concentrate on your internal character and just be happy with the rest - however it is that God made you. Of course, she dyed her hair for twenty years. Besides, I understand all of the stuff about my value in Christ. I’m not questioning my intrinsic value. It’s just the container I’m a little dissatisfied with. The only thing I can’t figure out is how you teach your kids, especially your daughters, the concept of a healthy body image, especially when I, myself, desire a few changes.
Liz Curits Higgs says to stand in front of a mirror naked, hold out your arms in victory, and yell “Ta-da!!” (I tried it and smacked myself in the chin with bouncing body parts. Perhaps I was too jubilant.) Others say to list the things you are grateful for. Eventually, it should sink in. I am grateful for the things that do work – grateful that I can run, breathe, and smile. Grateful that I have hair, teeth. Grateful that weight gain is an issue rather than starvation.
This is where the church has tried taking a gray area and making it black and white. How does one learn the rules? Sit back and see what’s OK to talk about? Makeup is OK, and tattooed eyeliner is as well, but other tattoos are taboo. Hair color changes are deemed acceptable, hair extensions or plugs are mere vanity; teeth straightening and whitening are fine but lip-plumping is over the line; eyelid surgery is OK but do the whole face and people will whisper; even gastric bypass is talked about openly but don’t tread near the topic of liposuction. Most are fine with ear piercing, but put the ring in another spot and you’ll raise eyebrows. And the issue isn’t just vanity versus necessity. It is OK to have surgery on your eyes because you don’t like glasses but it is evil to have a tummy tuck because you don’t like girdles. I don’t think a flatter stomach will enhance the fruit of the Spirit any more than it would hinder it. There’s got to be a healthy balance somewhere between
Frankly, living in the black and white of legalism is a lot easier than living in freedom - at least there’s a lot less wrestling. But sometimes I think God likes to have us struggle. For myself, it is in the struggles of the gray areas of life that I have become most aware of grace. It’s just that in teaching teenagers, black and white is a lot easier.
Four-year-old Elly seems to have no problem with this issue. The other day, out of the blue, she said, “Mom, why did Jesus make me so cute? I think I’ll pray and tell Him thank you.”
Like a rock,
Amy
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