4 August - My First Fat Summer
Remember that movie ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding’? Well, I have come to think of my mini break in Majorca as ‘My First Fat Summer’. Prior to now, despite various physical flaws, namely cellulite thighs, I have never had a problem donning a bikini. Surely, there’s always been plenty of babes on beaches that I could never measure up to, but I never have had the ‘Oh dear, time to wiggle out of the clothes and be naked’ fear. Hell, back in 2000 I scored the absolutely bestest/handsomest young man on the beach in Haad Rin. There may have been one or two toned Israeli soldiers on leave that gave him a run for his money but I think he was in the top 3. And he was, and will always be a decade younger than me.
But I digress. All this to say that it can go on record that August 2008 is when I finally thought, this is hopeless, this body of mine is just not responding to orders and instead of considering as my peer group the 30 somethings, I know only had eyes for the 50 and 60 somethings looking either fat and plump or fat and saggy or worse, skinny and saggy. This being the north posh side of Majorca, some of these women were ‘nice’. But the best remaining thing about them was probably their hair. How often has anyone walked behind a woman with lovely hair and thought she was 30, only for her to turn around and it’s your mum? When one is in a bikini, there is no such surprise, the body below the hair is what you see, an old body. Maybe I am weird but few things horrify me more than that sagging skin women (and men) get on their backs below their bra and on their waist viewed from the back, even the slim ones. Thank god for easy tanning skin is all I could think, at least I was not bloated and white, but merele a water retentive body in a soft, nice hue.
Clearly nobody else cared about me as much as I do. Toph’s standard reply is ‘You look great for your age, better than lots of women younger than you are’. Which is nice, but it’s besides the point. There may be an element of staving off return unspoken criticism in any case as he (and our host friends) also are no longer the shape they were ten years ago. By which I mean, if they’re nice and complimentary about me, I’m less likely to say ‘jeesus, can you do something about the manboobs and the pockets of fats that are growing on the side of your waist?’. I seem to have little patience for people who simply pick at the fat and vow to do something about it but then go grab another beer from the fridge.
But it’s true nobody seemed as tormented by these thoughts as me. Add to this my friend’s son who’s 11 and tall and perfectly tight inside his skin as a boy that age is, and I was pretty much having a Death in Venice moment every day. When we were sat drinking and eating our tapas one evening in the square and son was engaged in an impromptu game of football with a bunch of other kids around his age, I was practically ready to cry at a sort of ‘It’s all gone, gone, gone’ mood that took over. It seems most of my peers just drink another glass and eat some more and think it’s not worth the fight. Maybe there isn’t just the Tibetan Book of the Dead to read? Maybe if I searched on Amazon there would be an entire sub section to console me? I thought the TBOTD was about accepting death but perhaps it has handy chapters about accepting the 50 years prior death that you’re still living, but not in the package you liked?
I wonder if it’s much different for people who always had the hung ups? Do they notice less? After all when an ampler g/friend heard my concerns about the mini spare tyre she said she’s always had one so it’s not something she’s just had to notice now?
Anywway, before anyone says 'body dysmorphia' to me... I have checked the symptoms and to be honest I only have two: - Obsessive thoughts about perceived appearance defect. and - Compulsive skin-touching, especially to measure or feel the perceived defect. So am not depressed about all this yet, just annoyed, so no need to check with a head shrink yet. I'd rather spend the money on lipo dissolve or something... HA HA.
But I digress. All this to say that it can go on record that August 2008 is when I finally thought, this is hopeless, this body of mine is just not responding to orders and instead of considering as my peer group the 30 somethings, I know only had eyes for the 50 and 60 somethings looking either fat and plump or fat and saggy or worse, skinny and saggy. This being the north posh side of Majorca, some of these women were ‘nice’. But the best remaining thing about them was probably their hair. How often has anyone walked behind a woman with lovely hair and thought she was 30, only for her to turn around and it’s your mum? When one is in a bikini, there is no such surprise, the body below the hair is what you see, an old body. Maybe I am weird but few things horrify me more than that sagging skin women (and men) get on their backs below their bra and on their waist viewed from the back, even the slim ones. Thank god for easy tanning skin is all I could think, at least I was not bloated and white, but merele a water retentive body in a soft, nice hue.
Clearly nobody else cared about me as much as I do. Toph’s standard reply is ‘You look great for your age, better than lots of women younger than you are’. Which is nice, but it’s besides the point. There may be an element of staving off return unspoken criticism in any case as he (and our host friends) also are no longer the shape they were ten years ago. By which I mean, if they’re nice and complimentary about me, I’m less likely to say ‘jeesus, can you do something about the manboobs and the pockets of fats that are growing on the side of your waist?’. I seem to have little patience for people who simply pick at the fat and vow to do something about it but then go grab another beer from the fridge.
But it’s true nobody seemed as tormented by these thoughts as me. Add to this my friend’s son who’s 11 and tall and perfectly tight inside his skin as a boy that age is, and I was pretty much having a Death in Venice moment every day. When we were sat drinking and eating our tapas one evening in the square and son was engaged in an impromptu game of football with a bunch of other kids around his age, I was practically ready to cry at a sort of ‘It’s all gone, gone, gone’ mood that took over. It seems most of my peers just drink another glass and eat some more and think it’s not worth the fight. Maybe there isn’t just the Tibetan Book of the Dead to read? Maybe if I searched on Amazon there would be an entire sub section to console me? I thought the TBOTD was about accepting death but perhaps it has handy chapters about accepting the 50 years prior death that you’re still living, but not in the package you liked?
I wonder if it’s much different for people who always had the hung ups? Do they notice less? After all when an ampler g/friend heard my concerns about the mini spare tyre she said she’s always had one so it’s not something she’s just had to notice now?
Anywway, before anyone says 'body dysmorphia' to me... I have checked the symptoms and to be honest I only have two: - Obsessive thoughts about perceived appearance defect. and - Compulsive skin-touching, especially to measure or feel the perceived defect. So am not depressed about all this yet, just annoyed, so no need to check with a head shrink yet. I'd rather spend the money on lipo dissolve or something... HA HA.
posted by Lisa Taylor @ 6:53 AM
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