Does this little girl look fat?

As an adult I can look at this little eleven-year-old girl and say that she is definitely not fat. In fact, if one of my kids looked like that and thought she was fat I would be really sad and very worried about her. But, oh! My memories and feelings say, "Yeah, there's a little too much tummy there."

I was 10 years old. I had started taking ballet and I loved, loved, loved it; I was going to be a ballerina. My teacher, who had danced with Ballet West herself, was excellent. But she frequently told us how tall and how light and how thin you had to be if you ever wanted to be in a ballet company. I had been taking dance from her for two months; it was early in October, it was a Tuesday, it was around 5:45 p.m, and I was standing in the northwest corner of the room. Our teacher was telling us about how tall you had to be--something she acknowledged you had no control over--but she also said that you had to very thin, and if you were serious you would work on that. She also said that some of us would be too heavy to be in Ballet West.

And I knew she meant me.

I looked around the room at the other girls and thought, "Well, some of them are bigger than me." But I knew she was talking right to me.

OK. Looking back, I'm sure she wasn't singling me out at all. But I was 10 years old. Then, outside of class the teacher's mother would regale us with stories of her daughter's time in the ballet company. One of her favorite stories: the director put all the ballerinas on a diet, except for my teacher, because she was already so thin. I just knew I had to lose weight if I really ever wanted to be a dancer.

On top of that my family was very body-conscious; Mom frequently commented about people who were "fat." And, of course our society perpetuates this all over the place. In eighth grade, my friends complained about how heavy they were--100 pounds. I weighed about 10 pounds more than any of them. You know, my muscles--especially legs and butt--were rock-hard. I took dance classes eight hours a week, plus the practicing at school (plus I was young and active anyway). But I didn't think of that; only that I was heavier than my friends who all thought they were too fat. It's a hard thing to grow up in a time and place where so much emphasis is placed on how good you look, and where the "beautiful people" are brought so much into the forefront.

By the time I was 13 I had put myself on a perma-diet. When I first heard of anorexia and bulimia I thought those were really good ideas for losing weight. Fortunately I had a good--all right, terrific--self-esteem and I never had those problems. But I did stop eating breakfast and lunch. I might have a cup of milk in the morning, a small bowl of cereal if I was really hungry. I skipped lunch at school; instead I took my dance shoes with me and danced through the lunch period. After school I might have a glass of milk again; a half peanut butter sandwich if I was really hungry. Then I went to dance lessons for the evening; I was there not only for my own classes, but waited for my sisters' classes too. By the time I was 14 I was the pianist for all the ballet classes I didn't actually dance in. So I didn't usually get home again until 9:30 or 10:00. Then I did eat a good meal--and down a lot of milk (at least I wasn't getting a calcium deficiency).

Sometimes I wondered...I didn't think I looked too bad, even if I could "pinch an inch." But I knew that I wouldn't--couldn't ever be a ballerina; I would lose one of the great loves of my life if I didn't lose some weight.

When I was 16 I took a ballet class at the University of Utah two evenings a week. I had to audition for the class (bad news--I'm terrible at auditions; nerves) and ended up in the adult class instead of the serious, young ballerina class. Once I was there and my new teacher got to know me and see me dance, she wondered why I wasn't put into a different class; it must be my weight, she said. In December of that year I had to have jaw surgery (orthodontics) and my mouth was wired shut for two months--liquid diet (UGH! I still hate strawberry Quik!). I dropped 10 pounds in the first week but I was so hungry! I skipped school and dance through all of December. In January, when I returned, my University dance teacher said I looked just perfect. And I thought, "Great. If I never eat again I will be thin enough."

The very instant my mouth wires were cut, I gained the ten pounds right back.

This is me at my surprise birthday party. I was 17 and I thought I was 20 lbs. too heavy. I see this picture now and wonder, "What was I thinking?!"

So, for my entire life--since I was ten years old--I've thought I had to lose anywhere from ten to 20 pounds. A few days ago I was going through pictures that my mom had stored away and I found that surprise-party picture. I was in shock!! I looked at myself and said out loud, "Wow! I was hot!" How could I possibly see the girl in that picture and think she needs to lose weight?!

Now I'm married, I'm older, I have eight kids; I've gained some weight. Even though I'm softer now, I think I look OK--except for the mom pouch that doesn't seem to ever go away. Well, and the thighs. Sometimes I look at myself and think I look really good. Sometimes I look at myself and I see "fat." I have mostly come to terms with my body; over all I like myself (self-esteem is still not a problem). But old habits and ways of thinking die so hard! I can't help feeling I'd like to weigh quite a bit less. I tell myself that numbers on the scale don't mean anything, but I don't always entirely believe it.

A couple months ago I was in the temple. I looked around and saw people of all body-types; tall, short, some very heavy, some very thin, and all of them dressed in white. All equal. I had this freeing thought that it really doesn't matter what I weigh; I don't have to lose weight. That lasted about a week.

Soon after that, I had a physical; my doctor told me that my pinched nerve trouble would probably go away if I lost a little weight. He brought out a chart that said a woman my age and height should weigh between 113 and 142. He felt my wrist and said I had a larger bone structure and that the mid 130's would be good for me. Not exactly what I wanted to hear. But in a way it was a relief, as if I now had a good excuse to obsess about my weight. Is this long-time arch-enemy--the need to lose weight--also my friend? A security blanket? A self-identity thing? Hmmm. But if I did lose 30 pounds would I be satisfied? Or would I still look in the mirror and think I need to lose a little more?

And 20 years from now will I see pictures of myself and wonder, "What was I thinking?!"