Three Scary Words: "I'm Not Skinny"

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Have you ever heard your child say something alarming? The other day, I witnessed a moment that made me cringe with worry.

My nine-year-old daughter was playing with a friend. They were talking about their different sizes. (My daughter has always been near the 100th percentile for both height and weight, and her friend is on the opposite end of the spectrum.) The word "skinny" came up, and I overheard my daughter say, "I'm not skinny."

What?!?

I should explain that we have maintained a fairly idealistic and idyllic bubble around our lives. We don't watch much TV. Nary a princesses flounces around our house - in fact, my daughter is somewhat of a "Tom Boy." Even her school, a Waldorf school, is a place where judgment is discouraged and imagination and creativity prevail. So how is she even aware of what skinny is, much less who's skinny and who's not?

My daughter may not be "skinny," but she has a lovely form. She is athletic - strong and muscular. (She is an avid gymnast.) Her body is perfectly proportional, and absolutely beautiful.

When she said the words, "I'm not skinny," they weren't laced with shame. She simply made the statement matter-of-factly. So I was holding out hope that her words were more observation than self-depreciation. I asked her later if she didn't think she was skinny, what did she think she was? She replied, "Normal."

Phew.

I added, "And beautiful." She smiled. And so did I.

An Exercise in Futility

Like many women, I've never been happy with my body. I've always zeroed in on the flaws, staring at my reflection, half believing that if I stood there long enough, my intense gaze would melt away my "problem areas." Still, even in the midst of my self-loathing, I felt like my body was passable, at least when I was wearing clothes (as opposed to a bathing suit - or worse). And so I never felt it necessary to exercise.

Then I had children. And my body slowly ballooned through a combination of baby weight and being a stay-at-home mom with ready access to a refrigerator and pantry at all times. Today I'm up to my highest weight - 20 lbs more than I weighed in my glory days.

The hardest part of my downhill journey is admitting something to myself. I've always told myself that if I exercised, I'd easily achieve the body I've always longed for. But it turns out that's simply not true.

Maybe it's because I waited until I was 38 to give it a whirl, but despite my commitment to jogging every other day without fail, my metabolism refuses to budge. My body revels in its current state, hanging onto that 20 lbs for dear life. It's been 3 months and NOTHING.

It's frustrating and hard to keep up with the exercise regimen with no visible results. My clothes fit the same. The scale reads the same. I try telling myself that my heart, lungs, cholesterol levels - my insides must be looking really healthy! Sexy even! Somehow that's not a big comfort. Did I just say big? Well, I guess that's fitting. (Unlike my jeans.)