Last Memorial Day, I was seven months pregnant and feeling like a walrus on display at the zoo. It seemed like everyone had their noses against the plexiglass divider, oohing and awing at the size of my belly and commenting on how much effort it took for me to get out of my car in the Target parking lot. 

 My feet hurt, everything was swollen, and all I wanted to do was sit in my air conditioned house and eat all of the carbs I could find. However, being the mom of a two year old boy did not allow for such luxuries. Since being pregnant and miserable did not excuse me from being a responsible adult and loving parent, I settled for enjoying a popsicle on the front steps of my house while my son scribbled with chalk on our driveway. 

 I was alternating my attention between popsicle juices, licking them before they dribbled onto my sweaty legs, and my unpredictable toddler, assuring that he wasn’t wandering into the street to admire his favorite drainage hole.

 I noticed one of my neighbors. Her daughter was rolling down the hill in front of our house on her bike and clearly did not know how to stop. 

“Okay, slow down” She said calmly

I licked my popsicle, unconcerned.  

When her daughter started moving faster as the hill became steeper, she began to panic. 

“ Stop! Stop! Oh My God! Oh my God! Stop!”

Suddenly and without any conscious effort, my Body, who earlier in the day needed to take a nap because she exhausted herself vacuuming the living room, leapt to her feet. For a moment, my Body forgot that she was fat, slow, and tired. She forgot she was pregnant.  She sprinted down the driveway, faster than she ever could have while not carrying a baby, and grabbed the girl on the bike just before she crashed into our mailbox. My Body, the girl, and her bike all tumbled into the gravel. It wasn’t until I lifted the bike off of my legs that I began to panic about the consequences my instincts may have had on my unborn daughter.

When my OB/GYN assured me that the baby was fine and that she was wiggling and breathing happily inside of me, my fear was replaced with awe. My Body, who had been so big, uncomfortable, and sluggish, knew exactly what to do in a time of crisis. She didn’t need my brain to make the conscious decision to run down the driveway.  She didn’t ask for permission. She just did it. My body is amazing and I had been forgetting to give her the credit she deserves. 

 I have been in an on-again-off-again relationship with my body for years. I loved her slender frame in high school, but even then, I was taking her for granted.  She played field hockey in the fall, was on the high school’s cross country ski team, and ran track in the spring. She was always moving.  At the time, I didn’t understand that my Body looked the way she did because she worked hard.  I learned quickly though that if you stop exercising completely and trade your sneakers for bowls of ice cream in the college cafeteria, things are going to change. I gained some weight in college and I have struggled to appreciate my body’s newly formed curves. 

However, my relationship with my body took significant jumps forward when I took a class about eating disorders in graduate school.

On the first day of class, the professor assigned us to go home, look at ourselves in the mirror for five uninterrupted minutes and only make neutral and positive observations.

 If we had a negative thought or judgement, we had to reset the clock and start over.

I was nervous. It felt like being forced to go on a date with an old friend and look at her in an entirely new way. Although this date was with myself, the fear of rejection was as strong as if I was dating a new partner.

I had, of course, looked in a mirror prior to the class, but never without the distraction of brushing my teeth or trying on clothing. I certainly had never looked at my Body without judgment.

I know my Body well and we have been through a lot together. As a team we have run countless races, swam in the ocean, hiked and skied mountains. We have walked, skipped, jumped, and frolicked. We have loved a few men and have had too many margaritas together. We are a team but I had never taken the time to look at my body without expectation or criticism. 

Before my first date with the mirror, I got dressed up. I changed out of my torn jeans and put a cute sundress over a pair of Spanx. I straightened my hair and put on more make-up than usual. If I had to look at myself for five minutes, I wanted to look as good as possible.  I wanted to make a good first impression.

I walked up to the mirror and smiled at myself.

I set the timer on my phone. Five minutes.

I have huge hips.

Time restarted. Five minutes.

Gosh, my hair line is weird!

Five minutes.

I look like I am pregnant. I need to make time to go to the gym.

Restart.

I realized that this would be a long and painful encounter if I did not change my attitude.

I could not think of anything positive to say about what I saw in the mirror that day. To prevent negative thoughts from restarting my clock, I had to actively fill the mindspace that would typically hold my criticisms and fill it with neutral facts.

I have brown hair.

I have blue eyes.

I have a freckle on my left cheek.

I have a scar on my left hand from a drunken fall in college. 

Saying the comments out loud helped me get through my five-minute date but I knew there would not be a second. This was not something that I was interested in ever doing again . 

The next day in class however, the professor gave us the same assignment. This time, the date needed to last ten minutes.

The second date was easier. I still wore a dress and make-up, but I didn’t bother with the Spanx.  The tone of my comments shifted. With a little effort, I was able to give myself small compliments. 

I have nice eyes

All of the money my parents spent on braces was worth it. I have great teeth. 

I like the way my collarbone curves.

When I was asked to date my reflection for thirty minutes the following day, it didn’t feel like a big deal. We were given the option to get naked for this date, but I decided I wasn’t ready. Although my first and second date jitters were gone, I decided that I wanted to take things slow. 

I wore yoga pants and my hair in a messy bun on top of my head for the third date. This time, when I looked in the mirror, I was able to do more than compliment my Body’s appearance. I was able to appreciate her and everything that she brought to our relationship. I realized during this third date that although I had used my body exhaustedly, I had never made a commitment to the relationship. I took a lot and gave nothing in return. I was ungrateful, judgmental, and abusive. I was the partner from hell. 

At the time, I was in the process of writing vows for my upcoming wedding and it dawned on me that if could make a list of promises to a man I had known for a few years, I should also make a commitment to the relationship I had with my body for my entire life. I put my wedding vows aside and drafted a short list of vows to my own Body.

I vow not to judge you as you age.

I vow to appreciate you and the amazing things I have accomplished because of your strength.

I vow to give you credit.

I vow to love you, even if you do not look like everyone else.

I will love you because you don’t look like anyone else.

I also promised myself that I would continue and take time to look at myself, even when the class was over.

I broke that promise. I never did the exercise again. For a little while, I actively tried to keep the other vows. However, it didn’t take long for me to get distracted with other relationships and forget about the commitment I made to my Body.

The only times I think about the vows are when my body is doing extraordinary things. I tend to remember them when I am giving birth, finishing a race, or saving girls on bicycles. However, when my body needs a bigger dress size, I instantly forget my promises and go back to my old resentful ways. 

This needs to stop. 

I am in a long-term relationship with my body and I can’t keep treating her like a friend-with-benefits who I pretend to respect when I am feeling lonely or in need of attention. It isn’t fair for me to love her when she heroically saves girls on bikes but then degrade her when trying on bathing suits. I can’t use her to birth my babies and then hate the stretch marks she formed in the process. She has been committed to me our whole life, and it is time for me to love her back, for better or for worse.