It’s difficult to say — without verging on homily — when I finally realized I was over dieting. Watching my friends guzzle liter after liter of some strange lemonade-cayenne pepper-maple syrup concoction dubbed “the master cleanse” (did this cleanse get a master’s degree or something — what’s with the pretentious title?) in order to lose weight seemed like the sort of trite, melodramatic move popular in high school.
“Oh my god, I’m so fat,” someone would inevitably groan over lunch, while daintily picking at her salad, whereas I would be ravaging my lunchbox in an attempt to unearth a second serving of chorizo and rice.
Meanwhile I looked like a zaftig cow next to my rail-thin friend who thought 110 pounds was too heavy for her already-lean frame. “I am sooo obese,” she would moan, while I had to bite my tongue from shrieking, “And what would that make me?”
Fast forward to 10 years later and I still hear the same thing. Instead of sitting in a circle on the classroom floor, surrounded by friends happily munching on homecooked food, we’re lunching at some tony establishment dining on a meal roughly the equivalent of my weekly high school allowance — and yet the conversation is still the same.
Someone needs to lose five pounds, while another can’t bear the thought of donning the Stella McCartney sleeveless razorback pilates top she’s been drooling over because she can’t bear exposing her skinny limbs to the world. (“They’re too fat,” she says matter-of-factly, making me wince because her upper arm is roughly the size of my wrist.)
After years of fad diets, Bangkok pills and too many post-diet recriminations to count, I’d finally accepted a simple truth: I will never be as thin as Gwyneth. Or Jen. Or Angelina. Or even, God forbid, Kim Chiu.
My thighs happen to be the clingy type — they will always meet. My stomach? Too outgoing for words.
Two years ago, I’d finally instituted some healthy changes in my lifestyle — thanks to a detox that helped me get rid of gallstones — and chucked out the sort of unhealthy fare that made me sluggish and lethargic. A no-soda, no-fast food lifestyle left me feeling better but did little to alter my weight. But instead of weeping over the scale — a regular occurrence during high school — I just shrugged it off and went for a walk with my dog, Albert.
I’d learned to accept that my body will never be as lean and lanky as the models I work with. And that’s OK.
While flipping through Marie Claire Philippines’ final issue, I came across their annual feature. The story, entitled “I love my body,” features women of all shapes and sizes in various states of dishabille. Generously curved or boyishly shaped, they are proof that not everyone fits into the hyperglam ideal of perky-breasted waifs like Kate Moss or blond amazons like Giselle Bundchen.
Articles like Marie Claire Philippines’ body feature make me realize that the local publishing landscape will be all the worse after the demise of Marie Claire. Here is a women’s magazine that doesn’t attempt to airbrush all the flaws and distinguishing marks that make us interesting or unique, a publication that doesn’t demand perfection from its readers.
One image from the Marie Claire feature, in particular, struck a chord. Shot entirely nude, the subject was photographed leaning against a wall, her three keloid scars — the result of childbirth and surgery — readily apparent.
Here is a woman who isn’t ashamed of her battle scars, who wears them — and her body — proudly. Now if only more of us would embrace our figures — flaws, flab and all — life, and lunchtime conversation, would be so much better.
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E-mail me at jackieoflash@gmail.com.