This year, as I am entering my fourth decade, I’m thinking a lot about what I’ve learnt and achieved. How does it compare with where I thought I would be? Turning 30 is a manmade phenomenon, a landmark where none really exists, but just because something is all in our heads doesn’t mean it feels less real and tangible. I thought by now I would have learned to eat chocolate without getting it on my trousers, but I haven’t. I rather hoped I would have worked out what I want to be when I grow up, but it seems I’m still wondering.
It’s a strange feeling when we have a solid idea of who we are and what we’re about, and then suddenly find we’ve changed without our noticing. I was bemused the other day to realise something I’d known for a long time – that I work in the finance department of a technology company. That certainly wasn’t something I or probably anybody else would have predicted for me. It doesn’t mean it’s bad – far from it – but it’s unsettling when you realise something about you or your path has changed.
I’ve had another revelation this week. For the last two or three years, I haven’t owned a full-length mirror. I didn’t think it was particularly important, and in some ways it was rather nice – if I couldn’t see whether or not an outfit worked together, then I could just assume that it did and roll on with it. But at the same time I realised I wasn’t entirely sure what I looked like anymore. So I bought a mirror. And it turns out I’ve changed rather.
When I was younger I was very thin, so thin that people always accused me of being anorexic and called me names. I didn’t like it at all, but as I got older I changed a little and people started telling me I was slim in a nice way, rather than a mean one. When I was 24 my hips suddenly realised I was no longer prepubescent and they expanded somewhat, which I also rather liked. I’ve always been insecure about my breasts being too small but overall I thought I was rather a nice shape.
I’m still more or less the same shape, I think, but I’m certainly no longer the waif I was growing up. My hips have decided they didn’t do a good enough job when I was 24 and seem to have expanded again; I’ve grown a bit of a tummy – a pouch to hold my extra cookies, as Jess says to Nick on New Girl – and my thighs have changed shape too. The last may partly be muscle as I’ve been going to the gym and doing squats and deadlifts, which are bound to add on some muscle, but I’m not sure, maybe some of it is fat too. I’m aware that I’ve put on a bit of fat the last two years, mainly I think from having a commute which means I’m sitting down for an extra two hours a day, which makes quite a difference.
Anyway, rightly or wrongly, I was surprised by how I looked. It wasn’t the image I had of myself in my head, and it’s a very odd feeling to find that the body you’re walking around in doesn’t look the same as you thought it did. How can you possibly miss it, I thought, it’s there all the time! I wasn’t sure I trusted the mirror, and my friend said mirrors lie, so I decided to have a wardrobe clearout to see how much had changed.
Well, oh dear. Several dresses that used to be sleek and flattering now make me look like a sausage in a very tight casing. A pair of trousers I rather like and thought looked nice now look decidedly strained. A couple of skirts now no longer fit neatly round the hips but sit up round the waist in an extremely unflattering fashion. Determined not to be annoyed or shamed by these clothes that no longer serve me, I now have three large bags of clothes for the charity shop.
Well, who cares, you might ask. So I’ve changed shape a little – what does it matter? It’s an excuse to go shopping! New clothes! Hurrah! But unfortunately it isn’t quite that straightforward, at least not for me. There’s such a degrading feeling to having to throw out clothes because you’ve put on weight at the best of times, and for me it’s compounded by not really knowing how I fit into my own idea of myself as being very thin and slender. This may sound ridiculous to a lot of people who’ve seen me lately. I am still by most sane measures a very slim person. Some would say I’m now a “better” weight – for the first time in my life I’m designated at as a ‘healthy weight’ by the BMI index, whereas previously I’ve been classed as ‘underweight’ or even ‘emaciated’. But I’m still feeling a bit despondent, a bit unattractive, and, most strangely, a bit less worthy than I used to. In today’s society women are held up to an impossible list of physical ideals, but I do know that putting on weight is almost never seen as a Good Thing. It’s the butt of so many jokes on sitcoms and TV programmes: running into an ex when you’ve put on weight is about on a par with smacking someone over the head with a golf club. There is a definite feeling that you’ve lost, or failed, by changing shape in that direction.
Of course, the whole idea that who we are should be interpreted or judged by what we look like is absurd. It doesn’t make any difference. Or rather, it shouldn’t make any difference. I’m no longer the super skinny girl who would get called Twiglet or gently asked by a doctor if she has any trouble eating. While that isn’t a huge part of my identity it is still a part, and one that I now need to adjust. Right now I’m in danger of adjusting too far the other way, so I’ll be careful of that. It’s good to have a realistic sense of what you look like, but also to hold that idea gently, and to try not to make it a focus of your thinking. Being a touch heavier doesn’t mean I’m less clever, or smart, or interesting as a person. And I need to keep reminding myself that seeming attractive to others is only partly to do with what you physically look like – it’s more about how you see yourself. If you feel good, people will respond to that.
So I’m going to buy some new clothes that make me feel pretty, and keep chucking out any old clothes I find that make me feel crap. And put in some practise at thinking of myself as a fairly slim, reasonably toned woman, with a bit of a tummy – and a great arse.