How Much Do You Weigh?

In the past two weeks, I've had two encounters with relatively thin women who were asked about their weight (for a relatively good reason) and sort of flipped out about it.

The first one was asked for a costume fitting for the seminary spring play. On a piece of paper we were asked to put down basic information that would be helpful to our costume designer. Among them were height, shoe size, and weight. Then she measured us each for bust, waist, hips, arm length, etc. One of the women in the show did NOT want to write her weight down. Didn't want to do it. Just left it blank.

Now, mind you, this woman is pretty thin. She definitely weighs less than I do. Also, she was about to be measured anyway. So why the concern over writing the number down on a sheet that only the director and the costume designer would see, especially when said costume designer was about to head after her with a tape measure anyway? After the director called her in and told that she had to write down her weight if she wanted a part, she finally wrote the number down, but added an "ish" at the end.

The second time was yesterday in the seminary's Senior Placement office. A woman who is a bit taller and only slightly heavier than I am was filling out the cap and gown order form in front of me. I assume the form only asks for your weight in case you won't actually fit in the regular gown sizes. They're pretty roomy (tent-like, actually), so I'm sure it's only occasionally necessary information when they need to go up a gown size for width rather than just height. Basically, she could have lied by a good hundred and fifty pounds, and it wouldn't have mattered. But she wouldn't write it down. After protesting a bit to the administrative assistant, she just left it blank.

I would have understood these two women much better if they were seriously overweight. But they weren't. Neither of them. They both fell easily into the average-to-thin category. Both were beautiful (and not just "beautiful on the inside" beautiful, but really quite outwardly attractive). Both seemed confident and poised.

So what gives, friends? Why can this simple number mean so much?  Why is it so freighted with worry and anxiety? What about our worth depends upon reaching a certain number, and what is so shameful in rising above it? Who decides what the perfect number is, anyway? I weigh ten pounds more now than I did near the end of college. Ten. Less exercise and more long nights of studying will do that. I have days where my pants don't fit right, and I have cute short-sleeved dress shirts with sleeves that won't button on my upper arms because my climbing muscles are now just flab. Well, they'll button, but they now dig into my arms and hurt quite a lot (and hence, are left unbuttoned...). There are parts of my body that I like (eyes, hands, calves, neck), and parts that I'm not too crazy about (tummy, thighs, love handles...). But the scale is just a number! It doesn't define you or me or anyone else. It doesn't mean you're better or worse than anyone else, or that you have anything to be ashamsed about.

Also, this model may be considered beautiful, but this body shape is not healthy! Someone give this poor girl a burger and some cheesecake, STAT.

I decided long ago that I would fight against the evil-scale and evil-food mantras can so easily plague women (and men) in our society. Sure, we'll eat a piece of chocolate cake, but only while proclaiming, "Oh, I'm so BAD!" Why? Did you rob a bank? It's just CAKE, folks. Don't eat a whole layer cake every day, eat some veggies sometimes, and you're pretty much good. Exercise when you can. More is better, but some is good.

I think I grew up in one of those rare households where nobody was ever on a diet. My mom, who has always been on the average-to-thinner side (but not unhealthily so), told me early on that if I deprived myself by thinking I could never eat certain things or over a certain number of calories, it would only make my eating habits worse. Moderation was key. Want a cookie? Have one. Or two. Or three. But when you don't want anymore cookies, stop eating them. Listen to your body. Are you hungry? What are you hungry for? I realize even now that I'll often go for the bag of Cheetos (gluten-free!) when I don't even want them. I want a carrot, or a glass of juice, or some chicken and rice.

The author Anne Lamott describes relearning to eat normally after years of fluctuating weight and self-esteem issues. She puts the scale away and decides to learn how to listen to her body and just eat. She describes herself as "the world's biggest toddler," peering down at her navel as she realizes that her body will actually speak to her if she only listens. At first she only wants Cheetos (a woman after my own heart). But then, a few days later, she realizes that she wants sautéed bell peppers. And fruit. And veggies. And she learns that feeling full is a delicious and wonderful feeling, not a disgusting and shameful one.

One of the best examples of female health and beauty I've seen recently is the female Olympic athlete population. The women came in all shapes and sizes (speed skaters with muscular thighs, short and tiny figure skaters, strong hockey players, athletic snowboarders, solid skiers). Sometimes NBC even listed their weights. 180, 145, 115, 170, 130. But the focus wasn't on the number, it was what these amazing women can accomplish with their well-trained bodies. Does that number on the scale matter as much to someone who just won a gold medal? I hope not.

One of my college roommates admitted to struggling with body image issues throughout her high school years. In college she discovered yoga and pilates. Suddenly her focus was not on making herself smaller, it was on the incredible things her body could do. After some dedication to exercise she found that she could do hundreds of sit-ups and incredible stretches. She had more endurance and flexibility, and began to carry herself with more confidence. She began to treat her body with gratitude rather than suspicion, building it up rather than concentrating on how much she could deprive it of nourishment and still make it through the day.

When I'm tempted to get down on myself for gaining a few pounds in the last few years of seminary, or for failing to exercise regularly during my busy weeks (I'm pretty neglectful of this...), I try to remember the lessons that roommate taught me about being grateful for all the things my body can do, and the lessons my mom taught me about just eating. Food isn't the enemy, and a human body is a truly amazing thing. Sure, I can't climb a 5.11 anymore (or even a 5.9...), but I can stand on my feet and lecture for a three hour class. I can act in the spring play. I can sing, go for a jog, climb a mountain. I can work two jobs without wearing out. My body allows me to hold a hospital patient's hand and pray with her, to lift up my arms in worship, to haul 40-pound bags of cat litter up the stairs. It can do tremendous things because it is a healthy, normal body, and for this I'm incredibly grateful. My body is an amazing gift. So is yours.

Weight is just a number. Don't let it get you down. There was a sign outside the Body Shop in London when I was living in England that said, in huge letters: "There are three billion women in the world who don't look like supermodels, and only six who do." Amen, sisters.