I'm reading I'm Not the New Me, by Wendy McClure, right now. I picked it up for these reasons: I knew the author was from Chicago, I knew she had a website, and I knew she was doing a reading at my local feminist bookstore. Apparently, what I did not know was that Wendy's book is about weight loss and body issues. I hadn't meant to read another manifesto about weight, and to my relief, I'm not. She's snarky, and funny, and in one sentence, she went from being kinda cool to utterly brilliant. Here it is:
"And, in fact, today I find myself explaining to Elizabeth [McClure's therapist] that I think I'm doing this whole crazy site [McClure's site, Pound] in the first place in order to grant myself a feeling of self-possession because I've concluded that my deep reluctance to tell people that I'm trying to get into shape has less to do with wanting to keep it a secret than it does with how I don't want to give myself over to everyone else's opinions on how big my ass should be and hence my productive activity in the form of this online journal."
I can't even express how brilliantly McClure has explained exactly how I feel about my own weight loss. A couple weeks ago, S and I went to breakfast with his parents, and they complimented me, asking me first if I'd lost weight and then saying that I looked good. I was instantly mortified. Embarrassed and horrified that someone could possibly say that to me. You're allowed to tell me I look good, but not in relation to my weight loss. And you're allowed to tell me you like my purse, my shoes, my outfit, my hair, my toenail polish or my damn jewelry. But don't you ever dare tell me that my weight loss looks good. It's implicitly implying that you think I looked worse before, and I don't want to hear that. I can't hear that. It makes me catatonic.
S was uncomfortable with the idea that he should tell his parents that I don't want to talk about my weight loss, but with very few exceptions, I don't. I rarely mention it on this blog because that's not who I am. I'm not my weight, or my weight loss. And no one, besides me, is allowed to have an opinion on how I look, or how I treat my body. Full stop. If I lose weight, it's because for the first time in my life, I want to. No one else could make me get here, and no one else can make me stay here. So don't tell me I look good, or that I need new pants because the old ones don't fit. I can fucking look in a mirror and tell you that.
And so, yes, I am the only person who can say how big my ass should be (okay, for me it's kind of a moot point, since my ass is non-existent and if anything, I wish I had a bigger ass. Seriously. My ass couldn't hold up a pair of pants to save my life.), and if I want to discuss this with you, I'll bring it up. (Mom and Kate, you're exempt. You can bring it up.) But if it's okay with you, I'd like to make the elephant in the room that no one mentions. Because no matter how much weight I do, or do not lose, I'm still the same person.
And you should go out and read McClure's book, because it's full of heart and it's funny. And it include some genius pictures of old WW recipe cards. I laughed out loud while reading/looking.
I just finished that book, and I was like, "Whoa, Wendy LIVES IN MY HEAD."
Posted by: Cyn | May 11, 2005 at 09:54 AM