BY: JASON RAYNER
Me this past summer, in a photo where I actually think I look…cute!
I am not in love with my body. That simple statement holds so much weight (pun intended). It feels like a deep dark confession. Because it kind of is. At least, it’s not something you’re supposed to acknowledge so publicly. I can promise you, I’m not writing this for pity or compliments. It isn’t a cry for help. It definitely is not meant a form of self deprecation where I search for assurance that I look good. It is just an honest statement. One that I think is relatable to many. Or at least I hope so.
Since I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve ever been completely satisfied with my body. I’ve had moments where I’ve felt fleeting excitement about seeing the results from fitness or diet, usually measured by things like a shirt fitting looser than usual. However, even those moments of are overshadowed by the fact that there is always more work to do. It doesn’t matter how many essays I read on body positivity, how closely I monitor the calories (read carbs) that I ingest, how many Instagram photos I take from the best possible angles (one chin only and absolutely no belly showing through a shirt, thank you very much), I have always assumed that I would be able to truly love my body if I weighed less. If I was skinny.
I should start with a little history. When I was young, I was very overweight. My body just could not metabolize food like my parents’ did. Even if I ate moderately healthy, I put weight on. At 11, I got frustrated and told my parents I wanted to ask my doctor for help. I was tired of not looking like the other kids at school, and even more importantly, I was tired of being made fun of because of it. My doctor introduced me to a radical new diet, called the Atkins diet (and it was definitely in its craziest incarnation back then). The result? Well, I lost a lot of weight. And I was happy. Until I was miserable because I would eat the same thing every day and even at 11 I was able to recognize that I’m an Italian who loves bread. So then I ate everything. Of course I would buy fries with my friends after school - they were thin and couldn’t gain weight. I was thin-ish so I couldn’t possibly gain weight either. And then I did. I gained more weight than ever. Throughout my entire teenage years, I was fat. There is no other way to describe it.
Then, at 20, I had enough. I felt horrible about my body. I felt ugly. I was invisible. So I decided to start exercising and was militant about everything that I ate. And because my metabolism at 20 is not what it is at 30 (everything they say is true, and that sucks, let me tell you - that asshole slows the fuck down!), I was able to lose a lot of weight again.
Which leads me to how I have spent the last 12 years of my life, petrified that I will gain that weight back. I’ve definitely fluctuated but I have also been very aware of everything that I ingest. And every day, no matter how much I weigh, I always feel like a work in progress. I always see a roll or loose skin, eternally convinced there is “10 pounds to go”.
Because I know myself and my obsession with accomplishing goals, I vowed to never weigh myself, which actually is one of the smartest things I’ve ever done. I actually have no idea what I weigh, and any instance where I need to provide my weight (hi, acting resume!), I would just make up a number. Because I put my body under such scrutiny, I notice every little change. In my 20s I was never satisfied. Now I see photos of myself in my early 20s and I think “what the fuck, I was a so thin! I was a skinny bitch!”
Because that’s what it all really means; being skinny. It’s what it still means. It’s why, when I went from being an XL to someone who can fit into a small, I felt like I accomplished something. Never mind the fact that I have short legs and a long torso and most small sized shirts rise right up my torso. I feel validation because at least it fit my body. It’s why I struggle with oversize clothing. I may decide that Armie Hammer’s billowy dress shirts and short shorts in Call Me By Your Name is my fashion inspiration (of course I have a reference to that movie), but every time I put on a baggy shirt, I worry I’ll get too comfortable in loose clothing and fill it out. Because even though I have an athletic build, with a big chest, and muscular legs, I’m still trying to accomplish the goal of being skinny. Who cares if my body isn’t built like that?
The goal of being skinny is so deeply ingrained into our culture that we don’t really know how to judge beauty by any other standards. The lower the number on the scale, the greater the value in physical appearance. The only exception to this rule is if you’re muscular. Then you are allowed to weigh more but you should probably have close to 0% body fat to make up for it.
As a gay man, it feels like those are the only options, as if beauty is a binary. Despite the fact that I am generally not attracted to men that fit into either of those categories, I feel unattractive or inferior for not fitting into either category. As a man, I’m not really allowed to even talk about this.
It feels sad to say that so much of this desire is rooted in vanity. Except it isn’t. Because the obsession with being skinny also affects the way we treat other people. When I was fat, I was invisible. I want to say literally because it felt like that. I would walk into stores and people would not greet me. Cashiers wouldn’t make eye contact or indulge in small talk. Suddenly I lost weight and I would be chased down by every 40 something year old woman I could only assume went by a name like Lorraine or Suse at H&M, yelling at me for my poor customer service because they thought I worked at the store. Losing weight meant I could wear the clothes. I could look the part.
I’m pretty sure that part of the reason why I never notice someone checking me out or recognize when someone is flirting with me was because in my teen years, no one was. I was stripped of sexuality.
This obsession with being skinny has all come to a head recently when I started going to the gym because well, at 31, I was understanding the general importance of health. Naively, because my attitude had slightly changed, I thought it would be different. I would be in control. So I said yes to the physical assessment. When they insisted that I had to get on a scale and insisted on telling me my exact weight, I felt defeated. The conversation was again about results, and those results were related to size. I felt awful but since I had already put down a portion of my limited income, I decided to commit, even fantasizing about finally losing those 10 pounds that have been haunting me. So I started working out hard. And with actual machines as opposed to just running on a treadmill for 45 minutes. And then something happened. My waist size didn’t change, but my legs looked good, and I had a hard time getting on certain pants. Some clothes fit better but got tight in specific areas, like my arms. I had been gaining muscle. I was growing into my body properly. I wasn’t getting skinnier at all. I was getting kind of...well, thick.
This normally would be the part of the article where I then talk about the beauty of being healthy and loving my body. But I’m not there yet.
Currently, I spend a fair amount of time telling anyone who would listen that I was done being skinny, that it’s time to get thick. The more I repeat it, the more I can feel confident about my changing body. I’m trying really hard to believe that being skinny isn’t important. Except I still catch myself sucking in my stomach whenever I walk by a mirror.
I’m writing this because I am actively trying to reject the idea that there are rules as to what types of bodies are seen as beautiful. I’m writing this because while I can appreciate and love everyone else’s different body types, I need to learn to love and appreciate mine. I’m writing this in hopes that I can eventually embrace the type of body that I have. I’m writing this because having it in writing makes it easier to make me actually believe the message I’m trying to tell myself.
I don’t love my body right now, but hopefully one day I will. I also like junk food. And good wine. And again, bread. I go the gym because I genuinely want to treat my body well - yes, I do care about the health factor that goes along with the gym, and yes I like the way eating well and post-exercise feels (the actual act of exercising is still one of my least favourite activities, what can I say?). I’m beginning to let go of the fact that being skinny isn’t going to make me happy or complete, or more importantly, something that should be a goal. It isn’t easy. I am probably going to still make disparaging jokes about being wanting to lose weight. But I’m going to try to change the way I think. And coming clean in an essay is a good place to start. So I’ll start with that.