When I was in my early 20s, I had a brief period of total confidence in my body. In my teens, I had been thin to the point of scrawny and almost completely flat-chested. I was also short (five four) and therefore painfully non-leggy; my hips were, in my opinion, too wide, as were my shoulders. Then, at age 18, a miracle of late development occurred; I grew breasts, put on weight, and, at 22, found myself sporting a bodily measurement of 35-22-35. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was as I should be, and it felt great!
But by 25 things changed. The reasons for this were more psychological than physical: I suffered a traumatic breakup and moved to New York City, where I struggled to get a decent job, let alone get published. And I was suddenly surrounded by stylish beauties wearing clothes I couldn’t afford. In these circumstances, it was easy to focus my dissatisfaction on my appearance. After all, I had gotten a little bigger in the hips, and I was still painfully non-leggy.
My bodily dissatisfaction wasn’t just about appearances. Although I was fit (I practiced a martial art three times a week) and very strong, I didn’t think I was sufficiently robust. I wore glasses and was pale, or, as I once “jokingly” described myself, “pasty-faced and four-eyed.” If I was sick too often (too often being more than twice a year), I was not merely dissatisfied by this supposed failure of vitality but impatient and even angry. I would actually lie in bed feeling rageful toward my body, which any sensible person would see was doing its level best to recover. (Possibly this had something to do with my age; in my late 20s and early 30s I was already worried about getting older and didn’t want to waste one youthful moment lying in bed.) I would try to counter with accepting thoughts, but the impatience lurked within.
All of this, I assumed, would only get worse as I aged. But, starting in my early 40s, the self-criticism began to quietly dial itself back. This surely had something to do with newfound stability: I was recently married, I was developing a sense of community, my work was growing stronger and more confident. How I looked became a more minor concern.
And to the extent that it was a concern, my standards had become more realistic. Shortly after I hit 50, I looked at my body and thought, That’s better than I expected. I don’t know if I actually was healthier or stronger, but I felt my vitality in a way that I had not before. Perhaps I benefited from the inculcation of age-dread; in comparison to what I had been taught to anticipate, what I got was pretty great. Part of this was luck. During the hormonal topsy-turvy of perimenopause, I lost weight instead of gaining it, my breasts actually got a little bigger. The more important thing was attitude change; I was no longer demanding anything like perfection of myself.
