always and never small

my uncomfortable reality and a side of fries

I have wasted an awful lot of life, worrying about my size. Lamenting that I was not the tallest in the room. Standing on tip toes. Or in the back. Choosing not to go places that required a swimsuit in public. Avoiding attendance at events where my physical appearance would cause me discomfort.

This is not a cry for compliments, but an understanding of inner confidence.

Years working in the fashion industry, showed me how beauty opened doors. Stages. Expand bank accounts. Garner affection. I saw tall reach proverbial top shelves, gain attention, invitations, admiration and eyes in the room.

Being under five feet for most of my life was reflected back as “perfect for a gymnast” (which I was as a young girl) and “cute” among other ‘niceties’ in my lifetime. It made me feel “childlike”, even as I was grown. Once a woman cracked what she deemed a joke as we waited for a table with mutual business associates.  “Should we get her a high chair?” Recalling this, still stings.

“You are so much smaller than I thought”,  is usually shared when meeting a person I have only previously met on the phone.

I roll back to where size, became part of my consciousness. I recall not being able to fit into Levi’s corduroys that were all the trend one fall in elementary school. The waist gapping to accommodate “my gymnastics legs”.  Small became big in spots. Weight became awareness. Small made me an unappreciated side-kick to events or parties where “looking older” proved a cool commodity.

“You have thighs like me” my Mom proclaimed, 

Strong?

Curvy?

“Feinberg thighs. Calves like Dad,” she’d say.

I had witnessed Mom’s countless and fruitless diets. The Rice Diet, The Grapefruit Diet, The (fill in the blank) diet of the moment. I recall finding her stash. Goldenberg’s Chews and Jujyfruits, that were hidden in the glove compartment or her car parked at Carvel.  When she died, at 50, there was a receipt in the car from Burger King.

“One small O-ring and a Coke. 

This. This made me glad. Always in an effort to lose five pounds here or there, I thought, thank God. There were also the three pounds of Santa Rosa plums she ate that very day too. Her favorite ever deep dark beauties that would come, but once a summer.

Never tall enough. Never small enough. All barriers for entry into the front row of life.  I chose “behind the scenes” jobs putting others out in front. Fashion show production, editorial work, ghost writing, public relations. I have single handedly made bold faced names and nobodies, famous. Given others big ideas, feeling too small to execute them myself.

I don’t want to die this way.  

If Mom’s unexpected death taught me anything, life is too short not to be comfortable in my skin.

My girls have both suffered in the example I inherited and despite my efforts, likely passed on. Dysfunctional self-image. Poor eating and exercise habits along the years. Never quite liking photos taken of me. Trying like hell to not only fit in, but wiggle out of the discomfort. Learn to be proud of myself. Accepting.

At 57, I am working hard at changing the course of this family history. Daily. To find the inner confidence, comfort and pride—to let this outer reflection go.

I keep this Anne Lamott piece close…

“Oh my God, what if you wake up some day, and you're 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written, or you didn't go swimming in those warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It's going to break your heart. Don't let this happen.” 

So my dear girls.  I promise to walk tall.  Take up space. Be strong and glad for the body that is alive and breathing, seven years more than Grandma had here on earth. The one that can still do a cartwheel and yoga. And hug you. And swim. That can walk far and far. Into the future. Onto the dais. Boldly.

With pride.

And gratitude.

And a side of fries.

With love, your Mom, always a work in progress.