At 28, I’m still not used to liking what I see in the mirror.
As a little girl, I hated my boring brown hair and thought my eyes were too gray.
I resented having to get my first bra at age 9.
In one year (seventh grade), I went from a size 6 to a 12 and from a B cup to a C cup. I also stopped smiling in most circumstances because I was fed up with my peers’ incessant comments on my crooked, gappy teeth (no orthodontist was willing to fix my teeth until I was 14). That was an extremely unpleasant year, and halfway through eighth grade, I was falling into some habits that are not easy to break.
I relapsed in college. I’d drag myself out of bed, go to class, drag myself back to my room, and be so exhausted I’d sleep for an hour before starting on my coursework. Walking up ONE flight of stairs, even while lugging equipment weighing roughly ten pounds total, should not exhaust anyone. Eventually, my heartbeat became frighteningly irregular.
At my lowest point, I ate ONE single low-sodium saltine cracker per day.
I was the thinnest I’d been since age 10, but every day I was struggling to keep from passing out. Wanting to be perfect was killing me, albeit slowly.
Finally, I reached my limit. One day, I tucked the scale into my messenger bag and slipped down to the maintenance building. I was an RA, so I knew the maintenance staff would be on a lunch break. The door was open (it was always open during the day), so I went inside, borrowed a sledgehammer, and took it to the alley behind the building.
I took the scale out of my bag, set it on the asphalt, hoisted the sledgehammer, and smashed it into a million little pieces.
I was gasping for breath. My entire body ached. Stabbing pains shot through my back, arms, and shoulders. I felt dizzy. Hot, angry tears stained my cheeks. But, in that moment, I felt better for the first time in months.
(Don’t worry. I cleaned up the mess and returned the sledgehammer before anyone noticed it was gone.)
Given my personal history, why did it take months for me to hear about Operation Beautiful?
The concept is simple, but powerful: write a positive note and anonymously post it somewhere other women will see it. (A quick glance through the blog’s archives indicates that some of the most popular spots for leaving notes include school restrooms, dorm bathrooms, scales at gyms, and even on packages of diet foods at the grocery store.) Testimonials on the site are overwhelmingly positive, and several are from eating-disorder patients.
If all it takes to make a difference is a sticky note and a pen, sign me up (don’t worry, I’ll recycle old notes when the adhesive wears off).
P.S. British designer Mark Fast used three – gasp! – somewhat-average-sized models in his show at London Fashion Week. (Note that UK sizes 12 and 14 are equivalent to US sizes 8 and 10.) One more reason why I love London…
