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So
there I am, at 1 a.m., relaxing in front of a mind-numbing - but
somehow intoxicating - fashion show on cable. The girls look dead
and fiercely alive all at once, and I am reminded of caged panthers
at the zoo, sleek and nonchalant, pacing and intent, angry and
on display.
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still, against my better judgment, I record those measurements
in my brain. 33-23-35. I turn it over, this meaningless piece
of information, and savor it like a candy. Against my better
judgment. |
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And I look at these mile high stick
people and I can't decide what
I think about them. Part of me is jealous and admiring, still,
after all these years. Grow up! I admonish myself. Get with it.
Get real. Get healthy in the head. These girls are not well. They
are starving. They are not how grown women should look. I say
it over and over. Only part of me believes it.
And then they feature a particular
model, listing all of the things that make her who she is: name,
date of birth, height, bust, waist, hips - alongside frenetic
clips of her purposeful trots down countless catwalks. It is so
sad to me that she is reduced to numbers.
And still, against my better judgment,
I record those measurements in my brain. 33-23-35. I turn it over,
this meaningless piece of information, and savor it like a candy.
Against my better judgment.
I head upstairs and take the tape
measure out of my sewing basket. I can't believe I'm doing this,
I think. I can't believe it's not over for me. I'm years past
sixteen. Years past starving myself. Years past never being good
enough. But I do it anyway.
And it's not 33-23-35. It's just
not.
So I size myself up in front of the
mirror, and I think: Am I normal? Or is she?
It's a question I can't answer, never
could answer, and it's late. So I go to bed. Still thinking: Am
I normal? Or is she?
About a week later, I'm on the phone
with my Mom. She wants to buy my five-year-old son a pair of dress
pants. Would you measure him? She asks. To give me an idea? Sizes
vary. Inseam. Waist. Hips. No problem, I say. Free pants!, I think.
So. I take out the tape measure again,
remembering the last time I used it. And I proceed to measure
this child, who is big for his age, strongly built, but by no
means fat.
Waist: 20.
I check it again. No mistake. Waist:
20. Three inches away from what's-her- name's waist. He's five
years old and under four feet tall. She's twenty years old and
over six feet tall. And their waists are almost the same.
I turned it over again in my head.
I looked in the mirror. I looked at my son.
And for the first time in my life
I had the answer. It hit me like a bomb.
I'm normal.
She's not.
She's just not.
And finally, I just feel genuine
pity for that pacing panther on the catwalk.
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