I’ve been compared to Lena Dunham of the HBO show Girls fame on more than one occasion. “She’s cute,” they say. “She’s funny and clever,” they say. “She’s a writer.”
Yes, yes, keep it coming!
Yet, inevitably, the subject of her body must also be addressed. “She is so comfortable getting naked even though she doesn’t have a nice body.”
I imagine that Ms. Dunham gets as annoyed as I do at the repetitiveness of the commentary about her figure. Yes, it is, or at least has been, unusual for women with “imperfect” bodies to appear fully undressed on the screen, but why is it a constant focal point? And, why the need to point that out to me? I know that I have an imperfect body. I know that I am overweight. And, while that doesn’t exactly bother me, the comparison seems redundant.
And, I actually think that Lena Dunham has a great body. While by Hollywood standards she may be considered fat, she’s not, in my opinion, unhealthy looking and she is certainly not misshapen. Though maybe I am looking at her through a warped 21st Century American lens. Maybe I should be critical. Maybe it is as my son’s pediatrician stated “That’s what’s wrong with our society– overweight people look normal.”
As with so many patterns in my life, I can actually pinpoint a moment, or rather a brief personal era, that sent me in the direction of an insalubrious fall off of the healthy wagon that I was joyriding on. Twelve years ago—and I hate to admit that it was twelve—I was a vegetarian and an avid exerciser. I didn’t eat sugar save the occasional treat, and I baked all my own bread. Eating out was a rare luxury, and the mountains that I reside in served as my playground. Sure, I was drinking at least two bottles of wine a day, but who’s counting?
Yes, I was, if I dare say it, seventy pounds lighter. I like to think that I carry that extra fourteen bags of sugar with style, but I still feel the personal and physical repercussions of the fact that I gained the same amount of weight that my son has gained in his eight years of existence. Oddly though, and I have mentioned this before, I carry myself with more confidence at a size eighteen than I did at a size twelve.
So, and forgive my seeming excuse making, I, with all my energy and youthful ambition, decided to both go back to school (at one point taking nineteen credit hours) and to work two jobs. My boyfriend at the time co-owned an Italian restaurant and, though I originally criticized the abundance of fats in their menu selection, eggplant parmesan and garlic rolls slowly became my staple. I no longer had the time to bake my own bread, and the first thirty pounds settled on my thighs and hips rather quickly. Then, of course, came a child. (Though I did not gain my weight due to pregnancy, but due to a severe depression thereafter.) And, here I am, yet to slim down.
I believe that if I did it once, I could do it again. But, and here is a throwback to my last post, maybe it isn’t a priority at the moment. When I scarf down a tubful of carbs, I rarely have guilt, and if I do, I just remind myself that Lena Dunham is pretty darn hip and so, dare I say, am I!
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