Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Boobs…
So, from pre-adolescence on, I was at war with my body. I ended high school as a 98 pound weakling. At nineteen, as a child bride, I had a child of my own.
Three months along, I finally realized I was pregnant after scarfing two chili-cheez dogs in 7-11 at 11 p.m. and then dry-heaving relentlessly in the parking lot. At 3.5 months pregnant, and 110 pounds, my midwives threatened me with a hospital birth if I did not gain, and so I started eating in earnest. I was terrified of hospitals, and of being forced into a c-section, and I wanted more than anything to control this body just as a force so much stronger than I was taking over.
After I had my child, my husband hung my size teeny jeans on the back of the bedroom door because he told me that I had to look at them every day until they fit. Back when we met, a local clothing designer custom made his clothes in size 00 so I could wear them. I never wore those jeans again.
When you truly experience pregnancy, birth and breastfeeding you can never regard your body with the same level of contempt. I struggled on and off with not-eating, and obsession with food, but I steadily gained over time. I stopped allowing scales in my home. I told doctors not to weigh me, or if they did, to let me look away and keep the numbers to themselves. I became enthralled with cooking, and food.
By the time I was 39, I had regressed. At 5’5″, I did not track my weight, but I knew I was a size 12. I felt huge, and hateful toward myself Every morning I would grit my teeth in frustration at how nothing ever fit. Sometimes dressing for work ended in tears. I had not dated in a year. My ex-girlfriend had played guitar for a local burlesque troupe, and through her I had met The Divine Jewels.
The first time I saw her, up onstage, I was floored by her guts and her sense of humor. The second time I saw her she pulled a glittered tampon out of her crotch and flung it into the crowd, leaving them sprinkled with sparkly ‘blood’. The third time, she appeared in a vagina dress and sang Nina Simone, and my friend leaned over to me and whispered “How can anyone not call her a genius.” I convinced her to audition for the troupe with me.
That year, my 39th, I realized something that spun everything since. I was almost 40, and I was allowing myself to become afraid. I hadn’t worn a swimsuit in about 6 years. More importantly, I had become timid. I determined to do things that terrified me. I had to do burlesque.
The thing is, I hated my body from age 11. I look back at myself in pictures from my adolescence and I am sad that the girl in them had no idea how gorgeous she was. At each age, I loathed my present self, and wished my past self had enjoyed her now-lost beauty.
I realized on the brink of 40 that my 60-year-old self was going to resent me for not enjoying the body I am now. And that all that other time is just gone. What a waste of years self-debasement is.
A few months after my first show, I was standing backstage at The Knitting Factory, suited up to perform for the largest crowd we’ve ever had. Jewels walked by and smacked my boy-shorted gartered ass. “Six years without wearing a swimsuit, and now you are going out there in nearly nothing. I love it.”
I still struggle on days like today, when trying on clothes in a store feels like a scene from Alice, and I am the girl who stupidly followed directions: EAT ME. But most the time, I have my swagger intact, and you would be hard pressed to keep me properly clothed. It’s pretty near impossible when there is a stage, and lights and glitter.
And when I feel like a burlesque queen, I look like this:
photo by Carla Blazek
redzorah 