Do Ya Love Me?

The results of the body poll are in. I learned a few things.  First of all, more women than men read my blog—or at least more women are willing to answer my polls. But the numbers are the important part:

As you can see, twenty-two percent of men love their bodies, twenty-eight percent are neutral, while fifty percent of men like their bodies. None of the men polled hate their bodies. Overall, I'd say that men are pretty satisfied with their bodies. Yay men!

On the other hand, only sixteen percent of women love their bodies; twenty-four percent are neutral, twenty-seven percent like their bodies, and thirty-three percent of women hate their bodies. That means one-third of the women polled hate their bodies, and that is sad. (I am going to continue this poll at school, to see how that varies the results.)

You may know that I am kind of obsessed with my body. Well, I'm kind of obsessed with bodies in general; I think they are quite fascinating. But I am one of the thirty-three-percenters; I am not kind to my body—or at least I don't think kindly of it. And, yes, it is something I think about a lot, and have since I was probably about ten or eleven.

I'm not really positive—it was a long time ago—but I think I was OK with myself until I started taking dance lessons. Suddenly there was a  HUGE emphasis on being thin (including, at one point, weekly weigh-ins). Then I have a mom—and an aunt, for that matter—who say things like, "So & so has gotten so fat!" And then, of course I have lived with what every woman in our society lives with: Image after image after image of the "beautiful people;" along with diet campaign after diet campaign thrown in our faces daily.

Actually, you've got to love those women's magazines that show the latest androgynous super-thin woman in her panties and polo shirt (?) on the cover, with teasers that say, "The Last Diet You'll Need—EVER!" and "50 Delicious and Easy Recipes!" and "Try This New Fitness Routine!" all on the same cover. Even better are the ones that say, "Lose TWELVE Pounds in One Week!" and "Best Diet Ever!" while they show a huge, beautiful cake on the cover.

Um, yeah.

Anyway, I have slightly high cholesterol and I am overweight. This is true. But is that really a reason to berate myself daily? Because I do.  I get up in the morning and my face looks puffy and pale (morning, right?) and I think, "Wow. I look awful.  I am looking old." Some days I might say (mentally, or out loud), "I hate my hair!" There's almost not a day that goes by that I don't tell myself that I am fat, or that I hate my body, or that if I could just change (belly, thighs or . . . behind—or all three) then I'd really look great."

Now, I'm not telling you this to garner any pity. Rather, I suspect that all of us thirty-three-percenters behave in the same way. OK, maybe you are the opposite of me and think you are too thin; maybe you are too short or too tall, or you have weird toes, but whatever the reason, if you say you hate your body chances are you don't speak, think or treat it kindly.  I mean, really, would you ever talk to anyone the way I talk to my body?

How do you see yourself?

Every now and then, while I am disparaging my body (that's another weird thing—why do we talk about our bodies like they are separate from us?) . . . while I am being rude to myself, I will have a little flash of inspiration.  The first lightning bolt was five or so years ago; I was getting into the shower and noticed myself in the mirror. I said, "I hate my body," and suddenly a new thought flashed into my mind. Satan wants you to hate your body. (A little LDS doctrine: We believe that our bodies are actually a reward for "keeping our first estate"—following what God wanted us to do in the pre-mortal life. Satan did not keep his first estate, so he was cast out and, consequently, didn't get a body either. Being jealous and wanting to make us as miserable as he is, it would make sense that he wants us to hate our bodies.) This gave me something to think about for a while. But it didn't take long for me to fall back into thirty-year old habits.

Maybe two years ago I was at the temple and I was looking around at the people there. They were all ages, shapes and sizes. And guess what? I thought they all looked amazing! I could see that the man across the way was definitely very heavy, but I didn't think less of him or his looks; he looked beautiful. At that point I thought something like, It doesn't matter what my body looks like; that is not what makes you beautiful. That was my philosophy for a week or two, before I was back into old ways of thinking.

So here I am. I want to lose weight, I'm not particularly happy with the way I look or feel; I think about this way more than normal people should (although I may really be pretty average on that score). One day a couple weeks ago I am driving my van, minding my own business, when I glance at the dashboard and as my eyes move I notice my gloved hand.  I didn't have a specific thought—just a feeling. The flash was this: My body is amazing! My hands do amazing things. My body does amazing things. I should love my body.
Perhaps someone is trying to give me a message.

So how do you change a thirty-five year old animosity into something better? What will that do for you—or for your body? I am trying to figure this out.

I have to say, at least, that I do love my blue eyes. Always have. Maybe that's a start.