A Letter to the Young Girl Staring in the Bathroom Mirror

To the Young Girl Staring in the Bathroom Mirror

There you were in your black skinny jeans, your grey t-shirt hanging off of your thin frame, your beanie placed precariously at the edge of your head, your black-rimmed glasses perched on your nose.

I came out of the restroom stall, and was washing my hands when I noticed you.  Or, rather, heard you.  You stood in front of the mirror, something you'd obviously practiced in your 16 years, and said to your friend "My tummy looks flabby."

I, with my hands under the hot water, turned to look at you.  You were young, and small, and I stood there, watching you out of the corner of my eye. Your friend went to the restroom, and you stood in front of the mirror, turning from side to side, standing up straighter, smoothing your shirt down over your stomach.

I know that look.  I have done it nearly every single day for much of my life, I have pushed my shoulders back, held my breath, looked at my stomach in the mirror, thinking the same thoughts as you.

I, who had spent the day eating only fruit so I could partake in popcorn tonight, pursed my lips together, as I rinsed the soap from my hands.  You made your way over to the counter behind the sinks, and leaned up against it, your eyes on the mirror as you pulled your t-shirt away from your body.  I glanced at you again, but you didn't notice me--you were so intent on the mirror. Behind me now, I watched in the mirror as you shrugged your shoulders back, your eyes on the mirror to the side of you, and I pinched my lips harder. I wanted to say something to you.  I wanted to be that annoying older person you roll your eyes at--I thought about telling you this: "You're beautiful just the way you are." I wanted to say that to you because it's true--I didn't want to say "your tummy is not flabby," even though that was true, too.  I wanted to tell you that even if your tummy is flabby, you're beautiful.  No matter what, as you are, in your skin right this very moment, you're beautiful.  But I didn't. I didn't say anything to you, I just held my tongue as I walked out of the bathroom, and joined my husband in the concessions line, waiting for that popcorn I'd spent all day planning for, all day restricting for.

I looked around for you then, hoping you'd walk by, and maybe I'd get the courage to tell you. But you didn't.  And anyway, I didn't.

So, here is what I would like to tell you, at 16.  Here is what I am only just now learning, at 29:

Stop.  Stop obsessing over your body--over every single thing that's wrong with it. Over an extra five pounds, ten pounds, 1 pound. It's not worth it.  You will spend every waking moment thinking you're fat--trying to turn yourself this way or that in pictures. Shoulders back, stomach in, arm away from your side so it doesn't smoosh down and look fat, leaning your weight away from the camera, one leg behind the other, hip pushed back, stomach sucked in, chin down. You will look at these pictures in the moment and think 'I'm fat. I still look fat, despite all of this.' 

You will see every picture of yourself in the present and think 'I look fat,' and then in few years, you will pull those pictures out for nostalgia, and realize that no, you were not fat. You did not look fat. 'But,' you will think, 'Now I am fat. I wish I could go back to how I looked then.' And it will make it so you are never happy with how you look.

If you allow it, if you start down this road, I'm not sure you can ever come back.  It will cloud every single thing that you do--your prom, your high school graduation, your first day of college, parties at college, your scholarship awards ceremony, your college graduation, your wedding day, your random Thursday night at the movies.  It will always be there, in the back of your mind, this little voice that lies to you and says, 'It doesn't matter.  No matter what you do, you're going to look terrible because you're so fat.' After awhile, there will come a point where you can't remember not at least thinking about watching your weight, or actively dieting, or eating the cheeseburger without guilt.  You might develop an eating disorder--you might practice severe restriction, or develop anorexia or bulimia.  Sometimes, you might even avoid seeing old friends, so they don't see how "fat" you've become.

Those imaginary rolls on your tummy?  They're a ripple effect that will color the rest of your life.  They are an impediment to your happiness that will feel impossible to shake.

I don't want that to happen to you.  I want you to feel beautiful in every single moment you have, because this is it.  This is all we get. Standing in the bathroom at the movies, your graduation, your wedding day, I want you to feel beautiful. I don't want you to be worried about what other people think of your body--only what you think of your body, and I want you to love your body no matter what shape it's in.

Be healthy. Whatever that means to you--have a healthy lifestyle, but understand you may not be as skinny as you want to be, as the world wants you to be, as other girls you see--but your health is what matters, both physical and mental.

These are the things I want to tell you, 16 year old.  These are the things I want to tell myself.  That I want to believe myself.

I can't remember ever feeling happy about my weight.  At least, not since about the 7th grade.  I can't remember ever seeing a picture of myself and not picking it apart, usually in reference to my weight. I can't remember waking up, looking in the mirror, and thinking I looked skinny, even when I was.

I don't want that for you.  I don't want that for me.  I don't want that for us.

These are the things I wish I had said to you in that bathroom. These are the things that I want to say to myself-- it's not too late, I want to say.  It's not too late for you, and you know? It might not be too late for me, either.

Arm[or]

As you can probably tell from this photo, this is my arm.  I think that seems pretty clear, as does the fact that I'm pretty pale, which I've definitely mentioned before.  What's not immediately clear from looking at this picture (at least, I don't think that it is), is the complicated relationship I have with my arm.  Well, actually, arms.  For as long as I can remember, I've had this love/hate relationship with my arms.

I love them because they're arms, and they allow me to do all sorts of cool things like grab stuff, do cartwheels (maybe? I think I can still do those), do handstands (especially in the pool), and just generally live a normal day-to-day life. My arms are pretty awesome when I look at them from that light.  But there is also another light that I tend to look at my arms (and indeed my whole body/person/being) in, and it's one that's not so healthy.

Even when I was very tiny, I saw my arms as these massive things hanging from my body.  They've always just looked so fat to me. And with the weight gain (and even subsequent weight loss), that certainly has not changed.  In fact, it's to the point where--for nearly as long as I can remember (so, say 7 years or so now), I have worn a cardigan or cover-up (lace or shrug or what-have-you) over every single article of clothing I wear without sleeves. Sometimes even over clothes WITH sleeves.  And I have done so for one express purpose: to cover up my meaty arms.  This practice knows no seasonal bounds.  Even at the company picnic a couple years back which was held in June on what was predicted (and which was, I believe) the HOTTEST DAY OF THE YEAR IN LOS ANGELES (where I live), I could be found wearing a cute little romper, strapless by nature... with a lace shrug (surprisingly warm) covering up the upper half of my body.  I was SO HOT. And, yet, that lace shrug stayed exactly where it was.  Why?  My arms! Heaven forbid anyone see them in their natural habitat, occupying space.

In pictures, I try everything in the book-- arching the arm away from the body so that the fat ever-present on my arm doesn't smoosh together.  And it rarely works, usually when I look at a picture, my gaze goes directly to my arms. And the lament starts 'WHYYYYY do I have to have such large arms?!' etc., etc., etc. 

So, I'm not really sure what possessed me to pick out a STRAPLESS wedding dress, back in November, but I did.  I suppose my thoughts were along the lines of: I'll be losing weight! My arms will be skinnier by then, I will TONE THEM.  Which, I have-- the first part of that, anyway.  I have lost weight.  I've lost nearly 20 pounds now. (not counting the 3 I gained in Vegas this past weekend for my bachelorette party because I fully plan to lose those). But, I have lost weight--and yet. Yet, the fact remains, that I still am annoyed at my arms.  But, the marriage is coming now... in just a couple days over 2 weeks, and I have nothing set to cover my arms.

Thus has begun my experiment--over the past few weeks I've been wearing things without cover-ups over my arms; a romper (different than the aforementioned), a tank top, and a strapless dress at my bachelorette party.  And I only took my cardigan off in LAS VEGAS when it became unbearable.  So, I guess you could say that it went moderately well, but I was still super self-conscious, especially in pictures.  

There are so many little things that we long to change about ourselves, that we wish were different-- and I wonder why?  I don't do that to or about other people (for the most part). I don't look at my friends and see what they should change about themselves--when I hear the same criticisms coming from their mouths, I tell them they're wrong.  That they're beautiful no matter what--no matter the circumference of their arms, their waist, their thighs, their necks.  And what's more? I believe it.  I'm not lying--it's true. So, why then can't I give the same courtesy to myself? Why, when I see the picture of me with the guys from Thunder from Down Under do I stare at my arms (which look SUPER PALE next to those tanned fellas, by the way) and lament that they, Natalie's arms, are the TRUE thunder?  Guess it's good I've started practicing...

But, even now, with all of my "practice" I'm still terrified I'll get the wedding pictures (that we are paying a pretty penny for) back and think 'wow, my arms look huge' in every single photo and be unable to enjoy them or display them because of this.  I hope not-- I hope I think nothing of the sort when we get them back.  But, I know myself.  And that thought process--the one that just spirals into negativity and out of control--is super hard to contain when it comes to my own self image.

But, it's too late now: the dress is strapless.  So, me and my arms will see you at the wedding, where we hope to be feeling more at peace with one another.

A Week Without Makeup

I started wearing makeup in 7th grade.  I didn't wear much, but I started wearing "just a little powder" and the occasional lipstick/gloss. This was the same year that I started shaving my legs, despite my mom's protests, and despite having virtually no hair on them. I was grown up--or, at least, I felt that way, in a way I hadn't felt since I used to clop around in those little plastic heels you can find in the toy aisle, always marching on tile, pretending I was my mom, and going to an important meeting.  Now, I don't really wear heels (and I actually don't think I've been to an important meeting, either), but the makeup stuck.

I still don't wear very much--I don't cake it on, and much to the chagrin of every Sephora employee I've encountered, I don't want makeup that "gives me a little color."  Usually, I stick with the old 7th grade standby: "a little powder." Nowadays, I pair that with a bit of blush, maybe some mascara if I'm wearing my contacts (a rarity these days, since I've been having ocular problems when I wear them).  It is an even rarer occasion that I will put eyeshadow/liner on, though I do have various shades tucked under my sink.

But, despite the fact that I really do wear very little makeup, it's come to my attention recently that I feel like I need it.  If I am not wearing makeup, I feel self-conscious about it.  So, after that realization, I decided to go a week without makeup, and post the results on my blog. 

More or less, this was me for the week:

Me, sans makeup, X-Large for all the world/readers of this blog to see.

Sunday: Day One.  This was a lazy day, filled with light cleaning, Netflix marathons, and trimming up Cash to look like a pretty boy. Tom and I went out to dinner, and then we went to a movie.  This wasn't that much of a stretch for me--there are days when I do go without makeup (or use just what is leftover on my brush from the last application), and Sundays are typically pretty good candidates for this.  So, I didn't really experience any problems with this on my lazy Sunday.

Monday: Day Two. I was actually really nervous to go into work for the first time EVER (save the occasional Sunday, when I don't put any on and have to come in to work) without makeup on. Since I wasn't telling anyone what I was doing, I kept waiting for someone to mention it to me--to tell me how tired I looked, or that I looked different, or something like that.  Alas, no one did.  I kept going into the bathroom, however, to gaze at myself--I was really self conscious, and kept trying to stay out of the fluorescent lighting as much as possible.  I also became suddenly obsessed with my oil levels, and kept checking those in the bathroom mirror as well.

Tuesday: Day Three.  I didn't have quite as much anxiety about it as I did on Monday, but I was still super self-conscious, and I was certain people were looking at me and thinking I looked terrible. Several trips to the bathroom were made, and I had to keep myself from putting on a little concealer (unfortunately, even though I am 28 damn years old, I still suffer from breakouts). I held back, though, and made it through.

Wednesday: Day Four. Better known as The Day From Hell. This was one of the worst days I've had in a long time-- Murphy's Law was in full effect.  I still stuck to my word and didn't put a stitch of makeup on my face. Overall, it was relatively easier, although I still found myself thinking irrational thoughts--that things wouldn't have happened to me the way they did on The Day From Hell if I had been wearing makeup, or if I would have been "prettier." I also had a meeting at work and felt really self-conscious, and really thankful that the lighting was dim.

Thursday: Day Five.  I hardly noticed it this day, truly. Occasionally I would notice when washing my hands and looking in the mirror and thinking 'I don't look that bad.'

Friday: Day Six. Again, I hardly noticed-- and Thursday & Friday I really appreciated how little time it took me to get ready in the morning. It doesn't take me too long to put on my makeup, but it was nice to not have to spend the extra few minutes.  Then, it was time to take the picture--and I got freaked out and annoyed all over again, ashamed of the way I look.  Truth be told, I even thought of taking a picture with a little bit of makeup on and lying about it. But, then I just thought 'screw it,' I've come this far--so, there's the picture up there. Me, completely and totally without a stitch of makeup on. That's my 'screw it, I've come this far' face. Enjoy.

Saturday: Day Seven.  I didn't end up doing it on Saturday. I went to look at wedding dresses, and I'm already rather annoyed at my girth lately, so I decided to go ahead and wear makeup. So, not quite a week. Oh well, close enough. (And I went without makeup Sunday to make up for it).

What I learned: I learned a lot, actually.  I learned that I'm pretty dependent on makeup-- I learned that I can be okay without this odd little barrier between my face and the world, even if I have to work at it.  I've learned that I'm braver than I knew--and more self-conscious than I knew (didn't even know that was possible). I learned that people don't really notice, or if they do, they don't say anything, if you're not wearing makeup.  I've learned that everyone is not walking around thinking about how ugly I am and wondering why I don't do something to improve it.

And I learned something totally unexpected: It's okay to wear makeup--it's okay to use makeup to boost your self-confidence every once in awhile.  If a little bit of makeup is what you need to make you feel okay being in the world: go for it! Do I think I want to rely on makeup to feel that way? No.  I want to work on being comfortable in my own, unadulterated skin--I think this week, painful and scary as it was, was a big step toward that goal. Do I want to abandon makeup completely? Absolutely not.  I think I'll stick to makeup free Sundays, with the occasional Saturday thrown in--and I'll try to not be so scared of being seen without makeup by passersby on the street, coworkers, friends, etc.

Letting my face speak for itself (even if I felt it was yelling 'look at me!!!' all the time), was a great exercise for me, and one I think I should practice every now and again.

Sorry I'm Not Sorry

A few years ago I was on a film set, shooting a short film that I was acting in.  This was long before "Sorry I'm not sorry" was a popular phrase thrown around to express how unapologetic one truly is. It was my very first time on set, and I was really nervous and really excited and kind of scared.  I didn't sleep much the night previous, due to these emotions, and also a tragedy that struck the day before.

I arrived at set on Saturday morning at 6am, costumes in tow, unsure of what to expect, having never been on a set before. It was October, and it was foggy, cold, and my stomach was in knots. I went over to our makeshift craft services section, and busied myself the only way I know how--munching, and making sure that refrigerated items weren't left out of the ice chests. I stuck yogurts and milk into the ice chest with a shaky hand, issuing quiet warnings of 'this stuff can't be left out.'

Overall, it was a great experience--surrounded by friends and fellow actors, it was nice to be on set, to see the cameras, schedule, run lines, and listen to music to get me prepared for my scenes. I felt like a real actress, and it was pretty fabulous.  Then, it was time to shoot my first scene--I stood in a tiny room getting mic'ed by the sound engineer for the project, a stern (but friendly) lady who had been in the industry for many years.

As she was putting the mic on me, my arm was in the way--"I'm sorry." I said, and she kind of looked at me.  A minute later, my very existence being an impediment to how the mic fit, I apologized again, "Oops, sorry." I said, and then she looked at me.

"Stop apologizing." She said, her tone was kind, but firm.

"Sorry." I said, again, by rote--not even kidding around.
"Stop saying you're sorry," She said again, "Are you really sorry?" She inquired.
I thought about it for a moment--"No." I said, simply, realizing I wasn't sorry.

She went on to explain to me that she had encountered this phenomenon for years, mostly from women, apologizing when they weren't really sorry.  Throughout the rest of the mic session, any time I felt like saying sorry, I would try to catch myself.  I failed a couple times, and she and I laughed together.  "It's hard, isn't it?" She asked, and it was.

After I did my scene (which I was really proud of, by the way), I thought more about what she said, about the apologies I offered, and how I wasn't really sorry--I just wanted people to like me, to think I was polite.  Which, I suppose, there is nothing inherently wrong with. But, then I stopped and thought about it more. I was apologizing, in this particular instance, for my body being present. For the appendages, which are of myself, being in the way of someone strapping a foreign object to my body--I was apologizing to them when I moved the wrong way, when I didn't move fast enough.  I thought back to my time in the makeup/hair chair, and noticed the same thing-- I was apologizing for blinking, for moving my head, or scratching my nose.

When I thought about it in those terms--it was ridiculous. I realized that I cared so much about what people thought of me, that I was essentially apologizing for my own existence.  Like, 'oh, sorry my very presence is an annoyance/impediment to your work, I apologize profusely and incessantly in the hopes that you don't think I'm rude or don't appreciate what you're doing for me.'

Kind of crazy, really, when I looked at it like that.  The rest of the time filming, I really concentrated on not apologizing for trivial things.  I tried really hard to not say sorry unless I meant it--If I accidentally hit someone when moving my arm, I am sorry; if someone hits me, I am not.  Before that weekend, I would apologize for either instance.

It was more difficult than I imagined--I learned for the first time how absolutely ingrained 'I'm sorry,' and 'Sorry' were in my every day vocabulary.  And the thing is: I never even noticed.  How many times had I apologized before this, hundreds?  Thousands?  More? 

Most of us--or at least some of us--were brought up to be polite. We were taught that we shouldn't be rude, we should be kind, we should treat others with respect.  I thought maybe that had something to do with why I apologized so much, but that wasn't it, not when I really sat down to think about it.  No, it was more than just manners--please, thank you, you're welcome--it was deeper than that.  When I looked at why I was apologizing, it wasn't because I was sorry, it was because I felt like an inconvenience, because I felt like I needed to make sure the person I was randomly apologizing to knew that I was a nice person, that he or she really liked me.  It was because I felt like an inconvenience--and what I learned that weekend, is that I wasn't--I'm not--an inconvenience. And if I am, well... that's not because of me.

After filming was over, I hugged the woman who taught me this, and told her thank you, and meant it.

For awhile, I kept it up--I wouldn't randomly drop an apology for something I wasn't truly sorry for, for inane things like taking too long to retrieve money from my wallet, to find a card, or enter my PIN number at the checkout line, or being in someone's way on a sidewalk.

Recently, however, when I was at a drive thru retrieving my Diet Coke (I still really need to cut back), I noticed myself apologizing for not speaking loudly enough.  "Oh, a large diet coke, sorry."  I wasn't sorry at all! And yet, there I was apologizing, as if to say pleasedonotbemadatme.

It was then that I realized I had begun walking on eggshells with the rest of the world again--I had forgotten the lesson I learned that weekend in October, which in the short run was: Don't apologize for things you aren't actually sorry for. And in the long run was: You are just as worthy as everyone else.  You deserve things just as much as everyone else.  Your existence is not an inconvenience, and if it is, it is not your problem, it is theirs.

So, you see, I realized that I need to get that back--I need to work on not apologizing at random, to strangers, for things I can't control or are not my fault.  When someone bumps into me on the street, I don't need to apologize, they should.  

It's a tough lesson to learn--it was then, and it certainly will be again. But, it's pretty important--on the surface it isn't a big deal, but at the heart of the issue, it's realizing that I am important. Sorry I'm not sorry.