It’s weird. My scars haven’t even faded yet, except in miraculously transparent patches, and I’m already forgetting they exist. Now, when I raise my arms to tie up my hair (something I would never have done in public just a year ago) and the man at the next table looks at me a little too long, I feel an urge to make sure I’ve shaved my armpits. It’s only when I not-so-slyly slide my fingers into my shirt that I feel the abnormally smooth stripe of skin and realize what the man was staring at.
And I’m so much less strict about hiding them. Last week at work I wore a sleeveless dress and one of the nurses asked about my scars, and I realized I hadn’t told anyone there about my weight loss and all my surgeries. Even the other receptionist, to whom I feel fairly close. And so I told the nurse, because I’ve always maintained that if I hide my history with surgery then I don’t deserve the benefits of the procedures. I promised myself that I wouldn’t be ashamed of my plastic surgery, and I’m not, but for 4 months no one had asked, so I never said anything. Anyway, once I told her I felt like I’d been hiding it, and now everyone would know and talk about it (it’s that kind of office). So I told the other receptionist. She was surprised, but she didn’t seem to care that much, which made me feel like it was less of a big deal.
I just think it’s weird, trying to decide when and how to bring it up with new friends. Because it’s such an important part of who I am; you can’t really know me if you don’t know the story of my weight and body image issues. But at the same time, it’s such a weird, personal thing to bring up, especially with new people. I remember the first time I brought it up with the gay boyfriends. Robert looked at me like he was shocked, like he was surprised I hadn’t mentioned it sooner, maybe. And Ryan came in halfway through the discussion and had to be breezily brought up to speed. And I’m glad I told them, but it was also weird because I hadn’t said anything through the multiple (somewhat scathing on their parts) conversations we’d had about plastic surgery.
That’s the thing, it permeates almost all conversations. Body image, plastic surgery, Britney Spears being too fat to dance in that skimpy outfit at the VMA’s, Nicole Ritchie being too skinny to get pregnant (or so we thought); so many of the things we talk about in our society have something to do with fat or image or the superficial nature of our society (how sad, say those who’ve never really had to alter their bodies to fit in). Slender, or just normal, people talk about these things so easily. They’re detached. It’s just a conversation. But to me it’s always more. I’m always projecting. And when people know my history I get the sense they’re always self-editing. I don’t want that, really. Or maybe I do. I don’t know. I know I don’t want to be “that girl with a cause,” one of those people who can’t let others think on their own without trying to change their minds.
I guess I want honesty, but I also want people to realize that what they’re talking about is extremely personal to a lot of people. It’s not just an epidemic to be cured by science or disdain. It’s people. People like me. And I don’t think I’ll ever stop projecting, but then I don’t think I want to.
And I’m so much less strict about hiding them. Last week at work I wore a sleeveless dress and one of the nurses asked about my scars, and I realized I hadn’t told anyone there about my weight loss and all my surgeries. Even the other receptionist, to whom I feel fairly close. And so I told the nurse, because I’ve always maintained that if I hide my history with surgery then I don’t deserve the benefits of the procedures. I promised myself that I wouldn’t be ashamed of my plastic surgery, and I’m not, but for 4 months no one had asked, so I never said anything. Anyway, once I told her I felt like I’d been hiding it, and now everyone would know and talk about it (it’s that kind of office). So I told the other receptionist. She was surprised, but she didn’t seem to care that much, which made me feel like it was less of a big deal.
I just think it’s weird, trying to decide when and how to bring it up with new friends. Because it’s such an important part of who I am; you can’t really know me if you don’t know the story of my weight and body image issues. But at the same time, it’s such a weird, personal thing to bring up, especially with new people. I remember the first time I brought it up with the gay boyfriends. Robert looked at me like he was shocked, like he was surprised I hadn’t mentioned it sooner, maybe. And Ryan came in halfway through the discussion and had to be breezily brought up to speed. And I’m glad I told them, but it was also weird because I hadn’t said anything through the multiple (somewhat scathing on their parts) conversations we’d had about plastic surgery.
That’s the thing, it permeates almost all conversations. Body image, plastic surgery, Britney Spears being too fat to dance in that skimpy outfit at the VMA’s, Nicole Ritchie being too skinny to get pregnant (or so we thought); so many of the things we talk about in our society have something to do with fat or image or the superficial nature of our society (how sad, say those who’ve never really had to alter their bodies to fit in). Slender, or just normal, people talk about these things so easily. They’re detached. It’s just a conversation. But to me it’s always more. I’m always projecting. And when people know my history I get the sense they’re always self-editing. I don’t want that, really. Or maybe I do. I don’t know. I know I don’t want to be “that girl with a cause,” one of those people who can’t let others think on their own without trying to change their minds.
I guess I want honesty, but I also want people to realize that what they’re talking about is extremely personal to a lot of people. It’s not just an epidemic to be cured by science or disdain. It’s people. People like me. And I don’t think I’ll ever stop projecting, but then I don’t think I want to.
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