Why can’t we love our bodies? By Abi Foss
Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror naked? What do you say to yourself about what you see? Do you judge your body as too fat, too wobbly, too thin, too stretch-marked, too old, too out of proportion? Do you despair about your dimpled thighs, loathe your jelly belly?
Now, how would you feel if someone looked you up and down, shook their head, tut-tutted and pointed out every supposed bodily ‘flaw’ that they could see? You’d probably tell them (or at least want to tell them) to shove their opinions up a certain part of their anatomy. That kind of talk, quite frankly, is insulting. How sad then, that we cannot delight in our bodies, whatever shape they are, these bodies that have produced our gorgeous (well, most of the time) kids. Why are we women so self-critical?
Mirror anxiety
The one time I truly loved my belly was when I was pregnant; I felt almost regal, gliding around like a stately galleon. However, I have the kind of dry, sensitive skin that stretch-marks no matter how many expensive oils I lavish upon it. “Oh my God, Abi” a close friend of mine remarked when I showed her my new set of bright red marks, “that is reeeally bad.” (More than once, I have threatened to buy her gift vouchers for ‘The School of Tact’ for Christmas.) These days, I have a post-pregnancy mummy tummy, which I could, I suppose, flatten down with vicious dieting and a punishing exercise regime. But, you know what? I really cannot be bothered. I mean, who would I be doing it for? To make me more presentable to others, so that they would like me more? To stop myself being self-critical? That would continue anyway – there will always be something about me, physical or otherwise, that is imperfect.
Perfectly imperfect Because, here’s the thing: perfection does not exist. Never has. Never will. Celebrities who have whole entourages on hand to groom them within an inch of their glamourous lives, still feel as insecure as the rest of us. Our whole Western culture, sadly, lives on a fast-food diet of digitally enhanced images of impossibly thin young women with flawless skin. We worship at the fountain of youth and poke fun at frail ‘old codgers’, studiously ignoring the fact that every single one of us will, at some point, age, wither and die. This strange state of denial is what drives the whole, multi-billion pound cosmetic industry.
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According to an early 2011 study commissioned by the online fashion retailer isme.com, 90 per cent of women over forty are so unhappy with what they see in the mirror, they suffer from what researchers have dubbed ‘mid-life mirror angst syndrome’. I would bet this affects a large proportion of the under forties too. As a fortysomething myself, it pains me to remember how little appreciation I had for my youthful, slender body with my then (perfectly normal), slightly rounded belly.
Holy mother! Many, many moons ago, aging mothers’ bodies were not just appreciated for their great contribution to the human race, they were considered to be sacred. Think of that! Droopy breasts, sagging bellies and saddle-bag thighs bringing people to their knees in reverence. I’m referring to the pre-Christian pagan traditions of ancestor and mother goddess worship. Archaeologists have found a whole rash of ‘venus figurines’ across Europe, Russia and Siberia, statuettes of women’s bodies that today are considered old and ugly, dating back from 11,000 to 35,000 BCE, making them some of the oldest items of prehistoric art known to humanity. What our school history (and RE) curriculums do not teach us is that God has, in fact, been a woman for far longer than he/she (or it) has been a man (see: ‘When God Was a Woman’ by Merlin Stone, or the ‘Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets’ by Barbara G Walker). Women’s bodies, with all their lumps and bumps, were considered divine for the simple fact that they created life. I believe we are still suffering the after effects of several thousand years of patriarchal religious denunciation of the body, specifically women’s bodies, as sinful and dirty. And now we have images of models who barely eat and ruthless commercialism to contend with. We don’t love our bodies because our prevailing culture doesn’t value them, exactly as they are.
Reality check And there lies the key: value and self-acceptance.
“How do I know this body is the perfect one for me?” the spiritual teacher Byron Katie once asked. “Because this is the one I have got. Why argue with reality?” When I look in the mirror these days, I consciously practice not arguing with reality. I am aging. Fact. And I have realised that aged faces with deep, wrinkled ‘laugh lines’ are far more endearing than airbrushed, soulless mannequin types. It is the kindness that emanates from people that makes them beautiful; like the grandmother who is always there with a warm cuddle and a bowl of soup just when you need it. Somehow, I do not think that on my deathbed I will wish I had got myself a tummy tuck or Botoxed my forehead. If anything, I will wish I had loved my body more, and respected it as the incredibly intelligent, sophisticated, miraculous temporary space suit that it is.
Abi Foss is a hypnotherapist and writer on all things holistic and spiritual. See: www.abifoss.co.uk
June 2011