the delicate nature of body image: a case study

This coming week, I’m going to interview someone in connection with a nonprofit that helps teenage girls deal with body issues and that helps them build a healthy sense for eating and exercising habits.

It’s got me to thinking about my own situation, and how nice, how wonderfully helpful it would have been if we’d had any such similar program around when I was growing up.

There were some bad years, some unfortunate situations, but I wouldn’t say that any of it was vindictive or purposefully destructive on my parents’ side. But then there were some really good supportive years too, and still somehow I struggled with identity and weight issues. Often, I still do.

As a child, I was chubby. I always had pinch-able cheeks. I was short, so the fat had nowhere to go, I had no siblings at home to motivate me to go play and runaround outside- instead, I had books and sedentary hours at the piano, and our diet then was heavy on the starch, carbs and meat, easy on the vegetables.

Even at the sweet age of nine, when no girl should be thinking about diets and altering their growing body, I remember my aunts making direct comments about my weight. The exact words and phrases escape me now, of course, but I remember the disapproving tones when I was chubbier, and the reinforcing delight they showed when I slimmed out due to a gain on height.  Just the thought that someone I looked up to-no matter that I only saw these people once or twice a year-was disapproving of something about me meant that I wanted to change for them, I wanted them to dote on me, I wanted them to like me. By age 11, I was eating as little as possible, cereal for breakfast, something meager for lunch (often nothing at all), as little as I could get away with at the dinner table, and holidays were a gold mine for me because there were too many people around for my parents to monitor my intake. I usually lost weight on Thanksgiving and Christmas. I knew because I checked my weight and my waist and hip measurements regularly. I wasn’t even in junior high yet.

By 13, something inside me broke. I’m not sure if I was tired doing so much for people who cared so little, to spend so much energy for approval-seeking, or if it was the raging hormones, but in junior high, I began to eat everything in sight. I gained 30 pounds.

Then the monster was an entirely different kind. I was at the mercy of teenagers, others just as insecure and ready to bring down others to make themselves feel better. Boys would mock me, saying that the worst I could do in return was to sit on them because it would hurt so badly. Athletes made cruel comments as they ran past me during gym. People in the youth group at church wouldn’t hide their surprise when I could keep up with them during running and outdoor games, incredulous at the fat kid who could still get around. People stole my lunch on a regular basis, saying that I didn’t need it.

At home, things weren’t comforting, either. My dad would just happen to mention to me once in a while that his waist size in 1970, when he got married at the age of 20, was smaller than what mine was (then, at the age of 13, 14). My sister would casually bring up what her weight was before she had children. I was larger than that, too.

Not a single person told me that my growing body, while strange and awkward, was perfectly normal and that it would continue to change. That one day not long from then, things would even out on their own. No one sat me down and said “let me help you figure out a few healthy, filling meals you can eat on the average day.” No one said “yes, you’re a little overweight, but it’s ok, I still love you and other people will like you too,” and no one offered to help me establish any fitness regimen or to exercise with me.

It was just guilt. It was a passive aggressive challenge for me to lose weight so people would like me.

One romantic rejection and several stupid anecdotes from my family, and I was back to my starving regimen. At the age of 15, I lost 20 or 25 pounds, this time with a little more height on me. My clothes hung off my frame. And NOW people had the nerve to be worried about me. “I wish you would tell me your secret,” some adults would say to me. My parents were very concerned, but they didn’t know what to do about it, so they grounded me.

I was once punished by not getting to go over to a friend’s house for the weekend until I gained a certain amount of weight. When I didn’t fold and just retreated to my room or my piano each time that happened, and continued to eat less and less, they resorted to asking other people to talk to me for them.

It happened a number of times, but the most frustrating was when they asked a family friend, a young woman who ordinarily wouldn’t give me the time of day, to take me on a brief walk and explain why it’s not cool to starve myself. This was the most infuriating thing. I might have been young, but I knew she didn’t want to talk to me. I knew my parents had put her up to it, and it was the sorriest attempt at manipulation I’d had in my short life. It fueled my desire to control my weight any way I knew how.

The entire ordeal affected my view of people. It destroyed any trust I’d had in my parents, and it showed me who my real friends were.

In short, it made me very, very angry.

It wasn’t until college, when I had the culinary world at my feet and a gym around the corner, that I was able to push past everyone’s perceptions of me, what they wanted for me, and what I thought of their opinions of me. There were some months of fast food and snacking freshman year, but it didn’t take me long to start valuing a good breakfast, salads and vegetables, having protein to lift your energy during a sleepy afternoon, and other sound eating habits. I was able to lift weights to relieve stress between bouts of trying homework, and later I began the therapeutic practice of running.

To this day (I’m now 25), my aunts still ask me what my dress size is. Just to know. Not because they want to pass on hand-me-down clothing or anything. My parents sometimes balk at the amount of miles I run per week. And the boys who made cruel comments in high school often try to reconnect with me on Facebook, and are baffled why I claim not to remember them or simply want nothing to do with them. But none of that affects me any longer, because I’m an adult and my formative years in that respect are over. I made a choice to lead a different lifestyle so I could have more healthy years in front of me- without any of that condescension, judgment or baggage- to do whatever I want and surround myself with people who genuinely have my best interest at heart.

I can’t affect what you do or say to the little girls in your life, and I’m not here to preach, but just know that they are listening closely. Very closely.

rafters, sheeting and shingles

This week, I interviewed an elderly couple that makes birdhouses and donates the profits to the Joplin disaster relief funds. Rather than meeting at one of their craft booths, they were kind enough to invite me over to their home, where they make the houses, and we had a nice long chat about how they came to be woodworkers and what led them to use their talents to benefit other people. 

Before I left, the husband handed me a tall stack of paper, which turned out to be essays that he had written about their lives together, which they described as “only 47 years of marriage.” The wife still calls him honey, and the husband patiently listens, even if she interrupts. They are quick to laugh and tell on each other. 

The essays are pretty clear and easy to understand, a testament to the husband’s writing skills, and the stories were genuinely interesting and sometimes heart wrenching. The couple had many financial struggles over the years because of their varied interests, meaning they were always changing jobs and a couple of times, careers too, making it harder to build wealth or even-sometimes-pay rent. 

Following one of the new forays, they wanted to build a new house for their growing family, but wouldn’t have the money for new supplies or for professional labor. So the husband collected free lumber anywhere he could find it and resolved to do it himself. But for all of his thrifty-ness, he couldn’t provide all the materials they needed. Below, he describes a selfless and loving move by his wife.

“Late in the fall, I had run out of money for material from the small loan, and the cabin still lacked a roof. While I was teaching and the girls were in school, Sharon rode my bicycle into Bentonville, a distance of about 15 miles one way, to sell her jewelry. We were living on the east side and the last mile heading home was a very steep incline. That part of her bicycle ride coincided with my return from Southwest City and I (not knowing what she had done, so not looking for her) evidently drove right past her. The money was enough to buy the rafters, sheeting and shingles.” 

I love that there are still people out there who can see past themselves and would sell their jewelry and valuables just to build a life together. 

My top 10 favorite fictional journalists

In any profession, there are some major disconnects in what the job requires and what the public thinks the job requires, as you can see in these memes and others like them. Despite that, I truly love the “journalists” that pop up in movies.  Their life might be far from what reporters actually do, but they do their pop-culture duties well: which is to say, they entertain me.

Here are a few of my favorites, in no particular order.

Becky Fuller, Morning Glory

Becky completed three-not four-years of journalism school, but learned enough to become an executive producer at a few different early morning TV shows. In this movie, technically she’s more a manager than a journalist, but you’d only get that job if you had mad storytelling/story choosing skills.

She is so not cool, but she owns it. She goes to bed at 4 p.m. so that she can keep building her career, a schedule that manages to roadblock her love life and leave little time for making friends.

Also, she’s not afraid to express her feelings.

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Or to be assertive…

like the time she followed veteran reporter and celebrity Mike Pomeroy and his rifle into the woods on his hunting trip and blackmailed him into becoming a morning show host after a career as a world news anchor

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And through her self-deprecatory nature, manages to win enough people over to pull together a decent news crew and bring the show’s reputation back from the grave.

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Sally Albright, When Harry Met Sally

She believes that at (roughly) age 22, her life story hasn’t even begun yet, and that maybe if she just focuses on her career for now, she’ll meet some good people along the way and not die alone in a NY apartment, found only when the smell of her dead body seeps into the hallway. (Also my thinking.)

I applaud her disdain for Crystal’s pretentious character.

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And the fact that she’s confused by group fitness (as am I).

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Her main entertainment is reading the next bestseller and dinner conversation includes silly things like “restaurants are to people in the 80s what theatre was to people in the 60s.”

 She takes herself-and her career- very seriously, even when people can’t remember the difference between gymnasts and journalists.

~

Della Fry, State of Play

Della is a fledgling reporter at some Washington newspaper, which I like to think of as the Washington Post. For some meager salary, she’s flinging her guts to turn out copy every hour, just so she can one day have a shot at something other than a gossip/commentary blog about life on the hill.

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I love that she understands her place at the paper. She’s not afraid of being second fiddle, as long as it means building her skills and reputation, to work her way up.

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And that she doesn’t let it get in the way of her requisite daily amount of sass.

In fact, she’s not quite sure how to make the transition from an entitled girl who whines “I’m not giving up this story!” to one who can firmly ask for a little faith and opportunity, but she keeps on trying.

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I especially love that she doesn’t bat an eye when her editor tells her to gather information about “who she knew, who she blew and the color of her knickers.”

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She knows that if you do it right, a good article should end with a good stiff drink.

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Kevin, 27 Dresses

Kevin is a features writer for The New York Journal, and is stuck with the bridal beat, something he’s good at and something that makes the paper money, but nothing to build a journalistic career around.

What I love is that even he doesn’t consider himself a real journalist yet, and continues to pitch news-angled stories about feature-y elements, like the rip off of wedding cake pricing and other industry pulls, such as the commonly accepted idea that you have to register for a barrage of unnecessary items, like a rooster-shaped umbrella holder.

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His persistence for a real news story is pretty darn cute, especially when telling his editor that if he has to write another sentence about baby’s breath, he’ll hang himself.

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He doesn’t make a habit of picking up girls at weddings, a pretty noble feat for a single guy in NYC.

But when he meets Jane, rather than compromising her independence, he helps her build her confidence enough to stop letting everyone steamroll her.

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Mostly, though, I just find it impressive that he can cover a topic credibly while not hiding his feelings about it for a second.

Anybody who can be the same person to everyone and still do their job well has my vote.

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Janine Skorsky, House of Cards

Janine is the White House Correspondent for the Washington Herald and gets bumped down a professional notch when a snotty little newbie (Zoe Barnes) cuts enough corners to make the front page a few times.

You can tell she thinks that Zoe is full of crap, and it’s that sense of clarity that I admire in senior reporters. They’re able to see past the images people have built of themselves, the one face they try to exude, and they see people for who they are when no one’s looking.

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She is fantastic for her outspokenness, and her dedication to her craft that means she creates the best story without using an illegal or immoral means. She’s a reporter at heart, skeptical of people, and never bows to hiding her true feelings.

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Becky, Sleepless in Seattle

Becky is an editor at a Boston newspaper, and she’s both in charge of and friends with Annie Reed. From the confines of the movie, I can’t tell if Annie works with her because she’s good at her job or if it’s because she needs another female in the newsroom. Regardless, I love Becky for being a little crude, and for realizing that if she didn’t send Annie to Seattle, she wouldn’t turn out good copy (what with so many sappy radio shows and an impending wedding on her mind) and that she might end up marrying the wrong guy.

Heck yeah, pragmatism.

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I do have to disagree with Becky’s assessment of Walter, who I think is a great guy and completely lovable in a sweet, simple way.

But I find it endearing that for all of Becky’s strong opinions, progressive second marriage and impressive career-a woman managing men-that she too is a romantic at heart.

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Not to mention, Becky & Annie’s joint editorial critique and unmistakable disappointment in the return letter (before they know it was sent by Jonah) is pretty hilarious.

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Martha, The Paper

Martha was a reporter at a New York City tabloid where her husband is editor. Now that she’s pregnant and the baby is due soon, she’s no longer working and isolated at home, away from her husband, friends and coworkers. She’s starved for the work she loves and all the people in her life that share the same sense of smart, sarcastic existence that she does.

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I kind of adore her double standard: that she wants her husband to be at home with her while she’s in the process of becoming a mother, but that she misses her job so much, she’d rather be researching, making tough calls and chasing after the next big story instead of rushing to the bathroom constantly.

It’s almost as if she’s saying, “Dear, why don’t you stay home and have the baby while I take care of the paper?” Seems much more agreeable to me.

Also, love her gems:

“Bladder control, you don’t miss it until it’s gone.”

“I know I’m shouting! I like to shout!”

“Oh, come on! I dump a big fat, juicy steak in your lap and you ask for sauce?”

~

Frank Navasky, You’ve Got Mail

Frank is a columnist at a New York City newspaper, the Observer. He’s in love with typewriters, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, is terribly opinionated when it comes to politics, and doesn’t give a second thought to the conflict of interest that writing about his girlfriend’s bookstore. All he sees is that he can help her, so he does it.

I love that he’s so socially unaware that he refers to Kathleen as a “lone reed, standing tall, wavy boldly in the corrupt sands of commerce” and smiles smugly, thinking he has complemented her, and goes to bed peacefully-not knowing that she stayed up half the night with an existential crisis.

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Frank isn’t cool either, but it doesn’t bother him at all. He doesn’t seem to have the ability to know when Joe Fox’s editor girlfriend is hitting on him. He mistakes the flattery for true compliment to his literary genius, when she was clearly a buzz-wording bimbo desperate for contacts.

Also, he takes the time to break up with Kathleen properly: by sitting down, explaining what’s happened, to listen to her and to express friendly concern for her well being. Great guy.

~

Cal McAffrey, State of Play

Cal is a veteran reporter at the same Washington newspaper as Della Fry, but he’s been there forever. He can take an entire week for a story, sometimes even more, and is so valuable to the company that the editor is willing to hold the presses until midnight so he can get things straight. He’s the traditional reporter to the core: take your time, get the facts, dig deep and trust your audience to be both smart and hungry for a well-researched story.

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What I love about Cal is that he does a tough job, but for him it’s just routine business. He seems awfully content with his job, even though he hasn’t gotten a new computer in ten years, moved to a better apartment, or-seemingly- even gotten a haircut.

I like that his friendship with the senator doesn’t change anything for him. He treats him just like he would have as roommates in college. He doesn’t change, he doesn’t try to impress. He’s there to help, lend perspective or offer a couch when he needs it, but he’s not going to lay out the royal carpet or beat around the bush.

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The power struggle between him and the editor is an amusing one, since he has made himself indispensable to the paper, tends to push his deadlines as long as humanly possible, but also obviously wants to do a good job/please her. He has a distaste for a story that he knows is good enough but could have been better.

He knows his standards and his limits, and does well to make that benefit him and his employer.

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His initial gruffness with Della is almost cute, that he would be offended by the prodings of a fledgling reporter. But it’s an understandable one. In journalism, you do things yourself. You make as many contacts and connections as you can, you call in a favor here or there, but a large part of it takes a good deal of initiative.

But that means walking in and asking for something before introducing yourself should get shot down.

Still, I admired that he stood up for her once he saw what she was capable of. In news, it’s hard to move up without the help of someone your senior.

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Not to mention, his office looks like this, he eats cheetos & listens to raucous silly songs like “The Night Pat Murphy Died” while on the way to cover a story, and he wears plaid to work.

Love it.

Mike Pomeroy, Morning Glory

Mike is a news anchor, who’s had a very World News Tonight sort of career. He has an outrageous contract that includes ridiculous items like having a tropical fruit plate in his dressing room, though not “hookers and eight balls” as he could have if he worked with Peter Jennings (his words, not mine). And he’s not afraid to fill people in if they don’t know how important he is,

including this very self-righteous speech where he lists his accomplishments: “I’ve won 8 Peabodys, a Pulitzer, 16 Emmys. I was shot through the forearm in Bosnia, I pulled Colin Powell from a burning Jeep, I laid a cool washcloth on Mother Teresa’s forehead during a cholera epidemic, I had lunch with Dick Cheney.” (see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I4ktnP8eOOY for dramatic effect)

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He’s offended by the word “fluffy”

and wears colorful patterned socks with his blue blazers.

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I love that for all his rough and tough old news man personality, he cares for his coworkers and their production, even if he does give them a terribly hard time. We see his affection when Becky finally tells him that they’re going to cut the show if they don’t get their ratings up. He just sucks it up, waves to the cameraman, and covers breaking news for the first time in recent history of that morning show.

He saves the day.

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Honorable mention: 

Mikael Blomkvist, The Girl With A Dragon Tatoo

for pulling off some handsome sweaters and not being afraid to get his hands dirty with some intensive research and exhausting physical struggles against ex-Nazis.