Two years ago, I went to a modeling call at a local agency in Raleigh. I stood in front of a full-length mirror next to about 15 other people, my fingers intertwined, my feet shaking, my mind racing. I threw up in a Chick Fil A bag on the way home, exhausted from standing for hours straight and raising my hand when asked if I had measurements in-between x and y (never doing so without peeking to see who joined me).
About 6 months later, I was sitting at a table in an all white room, dressed in all black, with my mom and an agent of a new company. "We like you," she said, her teeth as white as the walls and her hair forced into a ponytail, "and we'd love to have you. I think it would be best to lose a couple of inches and then come back in a month to sign." She shrugged, as if asking someone who was 127 pounds to "lose a couple of inches" was the norm. I guess to her it was.
So I did it. I lost the inches. I quit drinking soda, cold-turkey. I had headaches. I was grumpy. I cried a lot. Same for desserts and anything that would make my sweet tooth thrive. I picked up a pack of Special K protein shakes in the pharmacy isle of Walmart every week, replacing breakfast and dinner. I refused to get pizza when we went to get Italian; my caesar salad stared me in the face and always ended up in a to-go box or the trashcan outside of the restaurant. I counted calories. I stood in front of the mirror before every shower, measuring my hips. I stared at the ceiling in the dark, listening to my dog snore on the bed beside me and my stomach growl. The very small, eery eating disorder that sat in the back of my brain and triggered me to ask the nutritional value at every meal was at peak.
The words "eating disorder" sound weird. They hit my tongue in a way that they're not supposed to. A google search result immediately throws pictures of measuring tapes, scales, and models across the screen, wrapping around my brain and triggering indulgence into statistics and true definitions.
Do I have one now? A disorder? No. Did I? Looking back, I don't know. Whatever I did have stays with me and stops in to throw me off every once in a while. I still shout out calories in my head sometimes when someone suggests a place to eat. I still use the knuckles on my fingers to see if my hips have changed. I stare at models in the Victoria's Secret storefront, studying their stomachs and the curves of their bodies.
On Jan. 1, 2015, I was supposed to move into an apartment. All utilities included, HBO, a swimming pool, and a two-story workout center. I got an email 2 days before Christmas break that said construction was incomplete and I would need to find another place to go until everything was ready. I went that weekend to see my boyfriend, and asked him if I could just stay until I could move on my own. He immediately agreed; I now have a dresser under his desk with my clothes, a section of the refrigerator, and a house key. This week, spring semester started, the map on my phone became my best friend, and the temperature dropped. I woke up early just to find more layers to pile on and I already give up curling my hair to get a couple more minutes of sleep. The workout clothes I got for Christmas still had tags on them and were stuffed into the back of one of my drawers.
When I got back from class yesterday, he asked if I wanted to go to the gym. Flashbacks started. How exhausted I was from crying when I first said no. The bottom of that Chick Fil A bag. The agent's hand motions when she said "lose inches." My ability to memorize everything on a menu. He waited patiently, sitting across from me on the bed. The eye roll was still there for sure, but I nodded and reached my arm elbow-deep into the drawer of clothes and decided on leggings and a free-flowing top.
He held my hand in the car on the way, taking breaks from focusing on driving to watch me stare out of the window. We walked in, he gave me a pair of headphones, and I sat down on a bench. His hand touched my lower back, his breathing was steady, and his eyes met mine while he explained how to move and how to get the most out of the exercise. He watched me the whole time, smiling, his eyes bright, his words encouraging.
When I first stayed with my boyfriend in Charlotte, he asked if I wanted to go to the gym. I said no. I watched him back out of the driveway and cried. I was turning my nose up to those who had to drag themselves to exercise in order to feel beautiful, confident, or attractive to someone else. But yesterday, I noticed how excited he was when he talked while explaining how to use a machine. I noticed how fast his hands moved when he walked over to drink water or talk to someone nearby. He never strayed far from me and always did what I was doing, too.
I thought that I didn't need reverse crunches or a new record on a treadmill to know that I was my best. I now know that through exercise, I am my best because he is at his best, too. Its still hard to go through the day without picking myself apart. If I said I didn't sometimes, I would be lying. But I know that he loves me the most when I am trying a new workout, when I am standing next to him cooking healthy food, and when I am accompanying him in his everyday life and routine. And compared to what could be, this everyday life and routine isn't too bad.
No comments:
Post a Comment