God Got Out His Knitting Needles For Me!

So now that I’ve seen Lammily—the doll that is what Barbie would be if she actually had average 19-year-old girl measurements—I want to see Mommily—Mommily at 29 and 39 (and then later maybe Grammily?).  Just so I can feel better – or just so I can at least feel okay with me. 

I was just talking today with my friend who observed that men’s bodies don’t change, really.  Sure, husbands might get a bit bigger here and there, but generally, they really do just stay the same.  My husband wears the same clothes he wore twenty-plus years ago.  And they still look new!  (Well, not quite – a few frayed items have gone the way of the clothes-dumpster).  Me, I have to buy new clothes every six months or so—and not because I’m a clothes-horse (I’m not and I hate clothes shopping), and not because I’m some kind of crazy wacko yo-yo dieter (also not), but because clothes just don’t fit the same at any given moment in my life.  (I’m up and I’m down; I’m yes and I’m no….)

So, when I was in high school, our high school performed West Side Story.  I still remember the scene—clever, I realized at the time, but also personally disturbing.  The girl danced out with a mannequin teen-sized, and set it down next to another mannequin on-stage that was mom-sized.  Then she sang and twirled with the mom and teen mannequins.  I was horrified.  I was horrified to think, and to have it put right out there in front of me, that one day, no matter what, I would be that larger mom-size, and I would no longer have my girlish figure.  Okay, well, I never exactly had a “girlish figure”, and I actually also had the horrified thought that perhaps I already wore the mom-size figure, but still, any way one looks at it, I was horrified and disturbed.  And the scene has stayed with me these twenty-five years since. 

Back in high school, my friend and I vowed that when we turned forty, we would be in great shape and would not have let ourselves go.  I think we even made a pact, being kind of naïve and solemn high school teens.  (Maybe I’ll dig up that pact for our high school reunion this spring.  That will go well with my eighties-style outfit and my eighties karaoke singing). 

So now, here I am.  Those twenty-five years have passed.  I was working out with my daughter the other day at the gym—she likes to work out now—and I was comparing myself in my workout clothes to my daughter in her workout clothes – because there was this big giant mirror there (the type that I usually try to avoid) and I realized—aha!—my daughter has that girlish figure, and I have that mom-ish figure!  Just like in the musical!  It was surreal. 

Thankfully, I was not as horrified as in the days of yore - as in the days of just last month; I did not shriek or cry, although I did have a slight pang of mortification.  No biggie. 

Over the twenty-five years, I have kept the pact with my friend.  Now, my friend and I have lost touch, but I have not forgotten!  I have gone for many a run, on a regular basis; I have trained for and run a half marathon; I have worked out at the gym—with an actual coach—on a regular basis; I have not eaten too many cartons of ice cream – in fact I have not eaten one pint container of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream by myself at all – not even once – not even close – since I was 16 and my friend and I shared that last pint together; I have eaten my fruits and vegetables; I have limited my meals to reasonable amounts and times of day.  I have done all that! 

And still, the other day—just last month— I lamented to my husband (just to reassure you, I have tried not to complain nor to seek affirmation from my poor husband, who does enough as it is!) that after all that, after all those years of work and commitment, that I still did not look right.  I still felt dissatisfied!  And my husband, nice guy that he is, looked at me and said, “You know, Serena, did you ever think that maybe God just made you that way?”  I said “No, dear husband, what do you mean?” and he said, “Well, maybe your body is supposed to look that way”.  “Oh.” 

So, okay, duh.  I never thought of that.  Or maybe I did think of it, but I was trying to avoid or fight back against the obvious march of time, the ravages of pregnancies, the long life, and the ravages of gravity. 

So here’s an idea for me and for you: why not have a little satisfaction with who we are, how we look, what we’ve accomplished—without beating ourselves up over it.  Maybe God just made us that way.  Maybe he just got out his knitting needles and knit us together in our mother’s wombs WITH BIG THIGHS or WITH LOOSE JOINTS or WITH SHORT ARMS, or WITH A GIANT HEAD.  Maybe he likes us that way.  Maybe he made us so that we do change every few months, and so that we do get a mite thicker here and there as we age (sigh).  And maybe we should just be satisfied with that.  And maybe we should just be thankful.

Of course we don’t want to just toss that body God knitted together in the trash heap.  I mean, we want to keep healthy and exercise and all that, and we want to keep our old high school pacts—especially in time for our 25th high school reunions.  But let’s not live with a constant underlying dissatisfaction that runs in the background no matter what we do.  Let’s not worry that we ate too much yesterday or that we didn’t exercise enough today or that we need to eat more salad and less pasta next week, and let’s be satisfied with the body God made.  K?  And let’s go out next November and buy ourselves some Lammilys and Mommilys, just in time for Christmas.   

So, repeat after me, in honor of Stuart Smalley (especially apropos for those of us celebrating our 25th high school reunions): “I do not have to look like that model in Self magazine to be happy.  In fact, if I looked like that model in Self magazine, I would be hungry all the time and worried about gaining a quarter pound after breakfast, and I would not be happy.   So… [deep breath]… I am strong enough; I am fit enough; I am good enough.  And doggone it, people like me.”