Yelling At Inanimate Objects (And Other Fun.)

This photo, originally in the January '10 issue of Parenting magazine, nearly gave me a brain aneurysm when I first saw it.

So, so many things.

For starters:
-She is eleven years old.
-She is holding a doughnut and wincing at her weight on the scale.
-She weighs 129lbs.
-To get a full body shot like that, she must have a positively Louvre-like bathroom. Or the photographer is standing directly inside her full length mirror.

Am I to feel any sort of connection with this image? Any sympathy for her plight? I do not believe that she either a) feels badly about herself or b) eats doughnuts. Maybe even c) has kids. (LOOK at those HIPS! Eleven.)

And sure, I'm not compelled to immediately identify with every single picture placed in front of me- but come on. The magazine is called 'Parenting'. Not 'Awesome Thin People Eating Junk Food'. (Although- sign me up for that one.) But its target demographic is the young Mom and Dad. Who presumably, if they have body image issues at all, have legit ones. (If I looked that good and had a doughnut, you would surely not hear me complain.) The article goes on to extol the virtues of being easy on yourself after the holidays, that a new diet is sure to fail now and again. The important thing is to not beat yourself up! Have a doughnut!

At the time that this magazine entered our house, I was a hot mess of hormones, sleep deprivation, Chicago winter skin/body/hair, and forty extra pounds of taco. You think you've seen tears? You have not seen tears. And a frightened P.J. did not think that a bag of Mexican food could solve it this time.

Instead, he told me to hang on to the article. Maybe even hang it up in my office. Before I could projectile weep at him, he delicately suggested (from behind protective forearms) that I take my own picture when I felt good about myself. Compare the two. Laugh. Have a snack.

And ten months later, I did.

I made a few executive edits:
-Wasn't so much feelin' the underpants thing.
-My shirt is crazy cooler.
-Martinis make scales easier. (Also- we don't "keep" doughnuts around. You either walk in and have them in a box, or you've just run out of doughnuts.)
-I've definitely got more rage than consternation.
-My camera was propped up in my toddler's Snack Trap.

So, what's my point? Am I coming almost a year late to The January Issue Of Parenting Made Me Feel Badly party? Am I railing against unfair depictions of actual Momitude in the media? Do I believe that only hefty people should consume baked goods?

Nope.

Oh sure, I was all set to be a stoic example of what a Real Mother On A Scale Holding A Highly Caloric Object looks like- a super zoom would reveal my lack of makeup, poorly patched "pedicure" and yes, those are a series of small holes on the front of my favorite tee- indeed, I kept it REAL. Until I stepped on the scale.

For you see, I didn't weigh 129lbs. I weighed slightly less. (Take that, MODEL.)

Now I was in a wicked pickle. There is NO humor in being smaller than the teensy person whom you are in the act of condemning for the samesuch quality! NONE.

But there was a smallish bit of pride. Not just that I was [fleetingly] thin, but that my self-created diet of tears, once a month Pilates, stress, more tears, some yelling, okay- more yelling, forgetting to eat, more than making up for it and crying out the difference, and playlot shame WORKED! For the time being!

Sure, it was nearly inevitable that once I stopped eating for seven- loooong after I'd had the baby- that I'd shed most of the weight. But should I should call Parenting and have them feature me as January's obnoxious example of unattainable long-term lifestyle goals? No way. Here's why:

Because in my quest to mock an unfair depiction, I've unwittingly become closer to the actual image against which I'd raged, an act which demands that I- momentarily- dislike and scorn myself. I'm basically required to wonder about what it is, exactly, that I'm trying to "say" to Me in general...and then spend way too much time agonizing about how I'm presenting Me to Myself in the media. It's kinda like Time Cop. Also- the weight of Not Real Problems is staggeringly heavy and hubris adds about twenty pounds. Oop, there we go. Back to normal. Thanks for nothing Parenting.

But I'm not gonna beat myself up about it.

Doughnut, anyone?