I’m just going to say it. Most of my life, I’ve been on the good side of skinny. I know. I sound vile. Keep reading (it won’t last).
My thin frame was something I actually clung to in college, when, moving from small-town Massachusetts to Manhattan, I felt less smart and sophisticated than everyone else. My ability to remain “willowy” while all the beautifuls and perfects pounded beer, pigged out on pizza, and put on the freshman 15 made me feel proud. Skinny was a small rope of confidence to hold on to.
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But feeling good in my skinny jeans got me only so far. Despite publishing my first book — a career highlight — I wasn’t happy in my personal life. Sure I had dates (often with impractical guys) and flings (cue Mr. Unavailable), but being skinny wasn’t keeping me warm and safe at night — something I deeply craved. So last year, I booked a trip to Italy to escape the emotion-sickness of my life.
As fate would have it (this was Rome, after all!), the moment my strappy sandals touched the ground, I met a guy. Yep, I fell in love in under four seconds, on a cobblestone street, just below the Colosseum, after asking for directions to my Airbnb. Before I could even unpack, we were softly touching knees on an old park bench interlaced with begonias. Needless to say, I extended the trip. (It only sounds reckless. As a freelance writer, I can work from anywhere!)
Turns out, what I thought was first-date foodie fun — margherita pizza, pizza pesto, pizza Gorgonzola … washed down with flowing carafes of robust red wine … finished off with thick licks of gelato and long sips of Limoncello — was not an act of seduction. This is how they eat. Every. Single. Night.
Who could complain?
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Well, a semi-vain skinny bitch who, several months later, couldn’t button her jeans. Nothing fit. After a few weeks, though, I started feeling kind of fabulous — fleshy and foxy in that Jessa-from-Girls way. Italy made me aglow with dreams and desire! They call them love handles for a reason, you know.
Enter New York City.
Seven months later, I came back for a few months of work. As always, I hit SoulCycle to kick the jet lag. Changing in the locker room, I saw some gym friends, who repeated what I’d just heard from my parents and sister: “You look so … healthy!” My (too hostile?) response, “Are you trying to say I look fat?” Despite the denials — No. What? Stop! — I moved to a bike in the back of the room.
Suddenly, without my boyfriend or the Italian backdrop, the extra pounds no longer evoked la dolce vita. In New York, “a good body” is often defined as a fit, thin, disciplined one — and now, those once voluptuous-looking extra pounds felt like a burden. With my self-image playing tricks on me, I started asking anyone who would listen (my mom; BFF; even my Starbucks guy, Tristan), “Do I look fat?”
No matter how pro-body-acceptance we try to be, there is always a sense of failure when we gain weight. “Slipping” (even from a superthin 5-foot-6, 119 pounds) makes us feel ashamed, like we’ve lost control. I just kept wondering if people felt bad for me or if we were all gaining something from my new “fat talk.” Studies show that self-deprecating chatter helps women bond.
That certainly wasn’t the case with my friends and family — they wouldn’t indulge me (and my barista thought I was nuts!) — so I decided to visit an expert: Shirley Madhere, MD. Recommended by a friend, Dr. Madhere is the rare plastic surgeon known for transforming a patient’s self-image both inside and outside the OR. Through in-depth consultations, she helps women differentiate their physical realities from their mental hang-ups. She seemed like the last word.
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As I stood there nervous and naked, Dr. Madhere — like a cool older cousin — said, authoritatively, “To answer your question, no, you do not look fat.” Finally. An answer I trusted. However (uh-oh), I could stand to lose a few pounds, and I lacked muscle tone.
I couldn’t argue with her assessment. “Doc, I went from burning an extra 600 calories a day at Spinning to consuming an extra 400 calories a day .… There’s a consequence to that.” I shrugged. “But I think I’m OK with it.”
I walked out feeling, somehow, resurrected. I’d been obsessing about the weight gain, giving it so much power, without having an open conversation with myself about it. The truth was, I was happy. My work was going great, and I was finally being loved for who I was inside and out. Suddenly, I couldn’t stop thinking about how alive and well I was in Italy, twirling my martinis, being hand-fed cannolis. How I laughed so hard every time my boyfriend would tease me about the tomato sauce on my face. How sweet it was to be so many things besides skinny.
After six weeks apart, I’ve reunited with Romeo for a little beach getaway. As I write this, we’re on fluffy towels in St. Barth, eating thick-cut French fries, touching our toes in the sand. I am absolutely spilling out of last year’s bikini, in the least Kate Upton way possible.
Part of me thinks to ask, “Babe, do I look fat?” But I break the cycle. It’s a lame, unintelligent question that I won’t endorse again.
Instead, I whip off my faux Missoni bikini top, flashing my real body without (almost!) any inhibition. Because in the end, I think I was just searching for permission to let my restricted skinny-self go. And once I did, I felt sexy, happy, and hungry for more.
This article was originally published as “Do I Look Fat?” in the September 2014 issue of Cosmopolitan. Click here to subscribe to the digital edition!
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Category: WHY
