I sign up for a Body Image class at 11 am and by 4:30 I am sitting in the classroom, palms sweating. We are asked to make a list of the attributes of the perfect woman. Why is it that the first word on my list is thin? We summarize her in size and color. Tall, thin, blonde, tan. I am none of these things. We are then asked to make a list of the costs associated with becoming this woman. "Not just the money," My professor makes sure to point out, "The social costs, the psychological costs, emotional costs. Don't forget about those too." My embarrassment at my inability to fit into this mold of the perfect woman soon turns into another kind of embarrassment, embarrassment for the things in life I have given up to look like this woman. I am embarrassed that going to a restaurant takes hours of preparation. First, research of the menu and calories, then a serious talk with myself to make sure I don't overeat, and lastly a recognition that people will actually be watching me eat in a public space. I am embarrassed at the time cut short with my friends in high school. The times I left sleepovers early to go workout, couldn't do fun things that required eating bad food or showing too much skin. I am embarrassed at the comparisons made between myself and others. The mean voice in my head that compares my thighs to every single girl I walk by. I am so embarrassed at the time, money, and energy I have spent trying to look a certain way. I am embarrassed that I cannot simply accept myself for the beautiful person I am. Someone who is not the "perfect" woman.
Excerpts from the book I’ll never write
