You’re back. Me here, just munchin on a few Fritos. I think 7 Fritos have 36 Weight Watcher points, but I DON’T CARE. At least, that’s my story and I’m stickin to it. Problem is, later on, sometime, today, tomorrow or next week, I’ll fall in a heap in our closet, truly distraught that there is this lop that falls over the waist of my jeans, and folds that double up in my belly when I sit down. Or while I’m bent over shaving in the shower. Or when my husband nuzzles up against me, late at night. Honestly, I’m just getting real here. I KNOW it’s vain. I know in the world’s eyes, I’m fairly thin. But not thin enough. Not like I used to be. I know that God sees only the heart, and that the beauty of a Godly woman is in her love of the Lord, and how she serves him. That this earthly stuff vanishes. But it seems I can’t help it.

There is a part in Spanglish (one of my favorite movies) in which the narrator comments that she’d love to explore at Princeton, should she be accepted, the cultural differences between American and Hispanic women.

American women, I believe, actually feel the same as Hispanic women, about weight. A desire for the comfort for fullness. And when that desire is suppressed for style, and deprivation allowed to rule, dieting, exercising women become afraid of everything associated with being curvacious. Such as wantonness, lustfullness, sex, food, mothering, all that is best in life.

Is this true? Somehow, it sparks a small something in my spirit. The way we, as women, are created is with flesh, curves, fat (yes, fat), to largely be able to bring life into the world. If men bore children, they would look like us. And in bearing these children, our breasts become full, with life sustaining nutrition, our hips soften and widen to carry the load, give birth. Our bellies expand miraculously to protect that little life, our faces, and limbs usually lose what might have been an angular look, to hold the significant increase in fluids, coursing through our bodies, allowing the baby to grow, thrive. And do we think, really think, that after such life changing, and growing, and body manipulating, we are going to pop right back into place, like those old Stretch Armstrong dolls? And show no mark of the transformation?

I believe only in the last 30 years or so, this pressure to get thin, be thin, stay thin has really exploded. I am sure I could research this for supportive statistics and facts, but I’m too busy typing and nibbling on some of the cake the dog didn’t get to do it. I remember when no one ran, unless they were being chased. I was young, but I remember. I remember my parents learning for the first time the direct correlation between fried chicken and butter biscuits, and their pants fitting too tight. Young women who married, were expected to eventually have children, and if they were particularly thin, soften, put on a few pounds. It was just life. But now? Now we see mostly naked cover girls gracing the magazines 6 weeks after giving birth. Tabloids touting how much weight Brittany, or Denise have lost in what amount of time since their babies were born, and showing us them in tiny midriff tanks to prove it. Isn’t this part of the problem? If you don’t show your ass and its thong to everyone and their dog, you don’t have to keep it quite so tight.

Until Twiggy, the average sized model was a 12. A 12. I’m getting all twisted up when my 8s get snug. I know this is completely whacked. Marilyn Monroe, Ava Gardner, even Lucille Ball. 12s. But in the time since, anything over an 8 is considered plus sized. That means, for the fashion world (which I’m sure is run by little men who hate women), you are only normal, if you are a 0, 2, 4 or 6. Is this nuts? Or is it just me?? If that’s normal, then 8, 10 and 12 must be overweight, and anything beyond that, obese. It’s wrong.

The worst part, to me, is that if I can’t get my psyche under control with this, there is nearly no way my daughter will grow up understand healthy body image. If I constantly criticize myself, even if only in my head, she’ll learn we’re never good enough. There’s always something we should be doing to look better. No words I can ever say will counter what she sees me see, in the mirror every morning. So I pray, I talk it out. I start to get on top of it, and then while we’re hanging out watching King of Queens one evening, double Ds hit me in the face from the TV screen. The Victoria’s Secret Angels, looking every bit anything but angelic. 24 inch waists, legs up to their throats, and a huge pair of ta-tas on top. And my husband gets to see it. And so does yours. And hers. And there I was, feeling good, snuggled up with my love, in my drawstring sleep pants and a cute little tank top, suddenly feeling like a giant, old, cow. A big, lumbering, mom. The antithesis of sexy. The opposite of desirable. Gee, really want to go have a little nookie now. All I can think is that those images are now in my husband’s head. Every flash of concave Angel belly blows my belly up in my mind exponentially. And yep, we all know the ones (or, I do) who’ve had babies. That only makes it worse. Who can live up to that? And why should we even try?? But for some reason, many of us do. In small ways, maybe, but the internal comparison is always there. Sick.

I know there are a few of you who check in here who will likely be either A. gagging that I think 10 pounds is anything, or B. ill that I would entertain such vanity, or C. Disgusted that there is any of this nonsense in my head. But maybe it helps to say it isn’t always the way it looks? That for someone you may feel has it made, they may have their own demons to battle, as ridiculous as those demons may be? And that really, we women, any of us who struggle to loosen the cultural albatross, and pursue what we know to be true, healthy and right, are all in this war together. Against anyone attempting to determine our worth, based on anything other than our hearts. Against our culture continuing to shove down the throats of husbands, sons and daughters, that this is the way to be, live, and look. Against the notion that any of us should be anything but the way God created us to be; short, tall, larger, smaller, brunette, blond, black, brown, red, yellow or white. Against the idea that we should pursue some warped version of perfection, not health. Against the idea that only the very young are worthwhile, and begin to embrace the reality that women growing in age and experience are among our greatest resources. If we can just switch focus and tap into them, and enjoy our own journies. See our marks of motherhood, aging, and maturing, as badges of honor. Those stretch marks? The not so pert breasts? The softness around the middle and hips? Medals of Valor, Courage, and Honor. I hope we can, because that’s where I’m headed. At frightening pace.