I spent much of the past 3 weeks obsessing mulling over ideas for this post, wondering what could I possibly share that is worthy of this sacred space in the blogosphere. Then I read an article in The NY Times about the launch of Spanx for Men and felt a twinge of inspiration. Spanx?
For those of you who don’t know, Spanx is a line of body-shaping undergarments created by Sara Blakely, born when she cut out the feet of her pantyhose as a solution to eliminate “unsightly” panty lines under her pants. 10 years and over $150 million later people are smoothing out tummy bulges and lifting sagging body parts thanks to her. Brilliant.
So what do Spanx have to do with my living my truth? Well, everything.
During the cocktail hour at an annual banquet last May, a friend who I hadn’t seen in awhile came up to me and said, “You lost a TON of weight!” Truth was, a Spanx body shaper under my black dress was magically moving my middle aged mommy muffin top to some place deep inside my sinus cavity. I was hiding the fact that I packed on another 15 pounds on top of dozens of others. I looked pretty good that night, though, thanks to my Spanx body armor and the high humidity rendering my curly tresses into sassy ringlets. And the 4″ heels that squeezed my feet as I took on more water than the Titanic. Yeah, I was working it …
Until I sat down for dinner.
That’s when the waistband of my Spanx mercilessly rolled down my protruding belly and rested itself just above my crotch. Frak. My ruse was up. Instead of picking at the salad, I downed 3 glasses of red wine and reveled in my pity party. Truth was, when I took off the Spanx later that night, the rolls, bumps and bulges spilled out like not quite set Jell-O coming out of its mold. The truth was, I was obese. In the clinical and physical sense. I waddled when I walked. I weighed as much as I did when I had an 11 pound baby in me! And when I shoved it all into a small piece of spandex to miraculously shift it around and create the illusion of a better body, it FAILED!
I failed.
My bloated body became a visible symbol of my failure as a person, a woman, a spouse, a mother, a business owner. I measured my success by the circumference of my waistline, the size label in my dress and the number on the scale. Because if I didn’t look good, how could I possibly be of value?
For as long as I can remember my body image was a punching bag for my frustration when life wasn’t perfect. I loathed the way I looked. I was not Marcia Brady. I was not like the models in Seventeen magazine. I had a bubble butt and tiny waist that ruled out my wearing designer jeans. I had big dorky glasses. I couldn’t feather my hair. I was ugly. And there were people in my family reminding me of that.
I didn’t fit the “ideal” … I wasn’t perfect.
My dad and his parents were big on appearances — as long as you looked good, your house was clean and the lawn was mowed, everything was OK. Even if in reality everything was going to hell in a hand basket. My mother’s family usually thumbed their noses at such convention, but I couldn’t help but notice my Mom’s frustration and shame when she struggled with her own weight and body issues, even though she was a stunningly beautiful woman.
I was great at wearing the trendiest clothes and appearing happy even when the shit was hitting the fan. I found ways to project my “perfect life” hide from it: performing in plays, dancing, good grades, dating a cute hockey player, graduating cum laude from a decent college, grad school, taking on mediocre jobs so I had a paycheck, getting married, having kids, buying a modernist house fit for Dwell magazine …
it all seemed right. Yet it was so empty. Why?
Because I had no clue who I was. I had no specific goals, no boundaries, no systems in place. I flew by the seat of my pants, thinking I’d field any curve balls life threw at me. Which worked with the little stuff. I had a fun job and cool friends and sweet apartment in Boston. The husband, a doctoral student at Harvard who was wicked smart and fun to be around. I had some triumphs — I looked better at my 5th high school reunion than I did in high school, threw fabulous parties in a teeny space, and upon turning 30 managed to get myself down to a size 4. Mission accomplished, right? Not exactly.
Trouble is, I got lost when the big stuff — unemployment, getting married, moving to a new state, childbirth, losing both parents to cancer — smacked me upside the head. They were too big for me to field without support and without a plan. Even as a size 4. I hid. I built an imaginary fortress to protect me. I shut out anyone close to me. Then anxiety and depression set in.
Eventually the emotional and physical baggage found it’s way to my waistline. Bad habits, having kids close to 40, obstructive sleep apnea. No time to go to the gym. Spending a lot of time on my butt at the computer, hours tweaking a design or farting around on Facebook when I should be taking a walk or dance class. To do lists, kids’ activities, traveling husband, marital issues, over-volunteering, boring work, deadlines … all wonderful excuses I incorporated to distract myself from my truth. I set my bar impossibly high so I could fail. I had no boundaries, no support systems, no money, no vision, no clarity. I was blindly careening down the track not sure where I was going, but I was GOING. And praying that I would survive each day as it came and went…
Until all these tactics I employed to hide from my truth finally caught up with me.
They caught up with me at that banquet as I squeezed myself into the Spanx and that black dress. They caught up with me when my business tanked. They caught up with me when my doctor said I needed to take better care of myself. They caught up with me when my husband wouldn’t touch me. They caught up with me when my kids told me I yelled too much.
So what am I going to to about it? I’m taking off my Spanx. I’m going to let my belly hang out and breathe for now. I’m going to acknowledge my bumps and bulges, sagging parts, scars, zits and spider veins. I’m going to look at each and every one and say something nice to it. For example, to my belly: Thank you for being a safe home to my two beautiful children. To the freshly cut scar on my throat: You are a welcome reminder that I can now breathe easily when I sleep. To my bubble butt: Defying Gravity. Booyah! To my wildly curly hair: it’s time I let you frame my face rather than hide it (though it’s fun to flirt with it that way).
I’m taking off my Spanx and setting myself free. Free to be comfortable in my skin. Free to take the time to take care of myself without apology. Free from self sabotaging limiting beliefs and behaviors which I allowed to hold me back. Free to just let stuff go out there in a finished state. Free to say NO. Free to share the crap floating around in my head rather than let it fester and die on the vine. Free to ask for help and receive it. Free to accept the grace and guidance of my four wonderful mentors who in their own unique ways offer me the support and tools necessary to help me discover my truth, my brilliance and my vision for what’s next. Free to accept and share my talents, skills and gifts. Free to give myself permission to be compensated for said talents, skills and gifts. Free to release any and all guilt I have felt about not being the best mother, wife, daughter, sister, designer, housekeeper or whatever else I am “supposed” to be.
Free to welcome each and every one of you into my life. But I just did that, didn’t I?
About Lori Paquette: Lori is the chief creative communicator, grand pooh-bah and caretaker of lipDesign, a visual communications mompreneur business based in Chapel Hill, NC. Lori’s passion is mentoring small business owners on their visual identity branding and marketing communications needs, along just about any other issue that falls into the mix. She is part stage mother, comic and pimp. When she isn’t yelling at doting on her 2 adorable children, she spends time yammering on Twitter, laughing, reading, writing in her journal, rocking out to an odd mix of tune-age on her iPod and cleaning up cat pee. She is Reiki II certified and learning how to embrace her intuitive healer self. Her web site and business are undergoing a redo, along with her body and home. An avid collector of cookbooks and shoes, she hates to be in the kitchen and is often barefoot. In another life she was a dancer, pantomime, baker and needlework artist.
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