Melissa Face is the author of the award-winning collection I Love You More Than Coffee: Essays on Parenthood, published September 1, 2020. Her writing has appeared in numerous local and national publications, including Richmond Family Magazine,Charlottesville Family Magazine, Tidewater Family Magazine, Scary Mommy, Motherscope, Sasee, Magazine, Nine Lives: A Life in Ten Minutes Anthology, Parhelion Literary Magazine, Bare: An Unzipped Anthology, and twenty-five volumes of Chicken Soup for the Soul. Read more at melissaface.com. 

InFATuated

I am thirteen and visiting Myrtle Beach with my parents and younger sister when I see naked buttocks in public for the first time. I watch with amazement and envy as bronze-skinned women hop off their beach towels and saunter toward the shoreline. From the back, these three are nearly identical, differing only by the color of the fabric wedged between their perfectly shaped butt cheeks. I question how that level of exposure can be legal, and I wonder if I will ever be confident or attractive enough to wear a thong.

I am sixteen and convinced that I am fat. My friend Jordan and I watch and rewatch A Secret Between Friends, a Lifetime movie in which the main character is struggling with anorexia. We study it, like a how-to film, mimicking their eating habits in hopes of obtaining the ultimate thin, summer figure. Our minds are fixated on our bodies, and the desire to be thin outweighs the health risks of disordered eating. Jordan and I count blueberries, place them in a Ziploc bag, and take them with us to the community pool where we tan our legs, flip through the June issue of Teen Vogue, and compare ourselves to the glossy girls. We base our worth on the amount of flesh protruding from our tankinis. We aren’t totally disgusting; we know that much, but we also know we will feel better, happier, and more attractive once we lose weight. We leave the pool and go home to eat dill pickles for dinner - fifteen calories for five spears.

In college, I avoid the freshman fifteen; I may even lose a few pounds. I walk around campus - to class, to the dining hall, and to McDonald’s for coffee. I feel mostly good about myself - not beautiful, but pretty cute. I date an attractive resident assistant in my dorm, and when it doesn’t work out, I blame my weight. If I were thinner, I could keep the guy.

In my twenties, my weight fluctuates more than oil prices. I diet often, exercise occasionally, and know, with certainty, that I have an unhealthy relationship with food. My boyfriend and I eat salads and other healthy meals for dinner, but when he leaves for work and I’m alone, I order slices of cheesecake from an Italian restaurant that delivers to my apartment complex. I splurge on a slice of triple chocolate and a slice of tiramisu and devour both. I walk outside to the dumpster to discard the evidence: styrofoam box, paper bag, plastic fork. I can hide that I’m ordering food and eating inordinate amounts of it, but I cannot hide my burgeoning belly and the fact that I am outgrowing my wardrobe. My size makes me feel pathetic and sad, and my feelings prompt me to eat more and more.

I join Curves and try the Atkins diet. I eventually quit both, but I am the thinnest I’ve been in years, and I actually enjoy shopping for my wedding gown. I buy a two-piece bathing suit for my honeymoon, a genuine string bikini. It’s not a thong, but it isn’t a damn tankini either. I enjoy a few years of a smaller self, but it comes with a cost. I say no to my favorite foods, avoid situations I find tempting, and fall asleep hungry.

In my thirties, I conceive my first child and fully embrace the concept of eating for two. I down milkshakes and brownies in between meals and late at night. I feel most comfortable in stretchy maternity wear, and I protect my growing belly from mirrors and cameras. My first child is born and a few years later, my daughter arrives. I cry when I see my reflection in the mirror. I feel like I’m in a fat suit that I can’t peel off, and I stare at my heavy, uneven breasts and the map of stretch marks on my belly. I tell myself I look disgusting, and I realize that there is a significant, negative correlation between my weight and my self-esteem. 

I long for the fat I thought I was when I was sixteen, and I begin a rigorous program of diet and exercise. I start walking on my treadmill, increase to a jog, and train for 5k races. I eat healthy, low-carb foods, and I lose, gradually, a total of 36 pounds. I am the thinnest I’ve been since college, and everyone tells me how good I look. At a medical appointment, the nurse says I really shouldn’t lose more weight, but I take her warning as a challenge and drop another five pounds. The physical change is remarkable, but not as profound as what others cannot see. My self-talk is kinder, more complimentary, and I feel deserving of new clothes… and love. For three years, I go to bed with my stomach rumbling, rubbing my hand over my abdomen, satisfied with its flatness.

It’s the spring of 2022, and I pick up my children from aftercare and notice they are both upset. I ask them if they are hurt or sick and they say no. They tell me a bad thing happened at aftercare - that a boy told a girl that her tummy was big and she cried and cried. One of the teachers walked her around the building until she calmed down and felt better. My daughter doesn’t understand why one child would speak to another that way, especially when she is just so nice. My son acknowledges that the boy often insults others and says hateful things. My kids say no one usually cares, but we all feel the sting of his words tonight.

I have gained back much of the weight I lost a few years ago, and my daughter has learned the more offensive “F” word. She asks me if people she knows are fat or skinny, as though everyone can be sorted into only two categories. What am I, she wants to know. What are you? I tell her we are strong and our bodies look just as they are supposed to. We scroll past beauty ads and watch the floor routines of Simone Biles and Katelyn Ohashi, and we focus our conversation on power and strength instead of thick versus thin. We eat well balanced meals, but we don’t deny ourselves donuts or ice cream.

I study my reflection in the mirror and rehearse a new monologue. I tell myself that I am healthy, strong, and worthy of love. I say it aloud when I’m blow drying my hair and my daughter walks in to borrow my lipgloss. I’m going to repeat it every day until I believe it, too.