Columnists
Oh, Oh, Oh, Oreo
This one is for all of the people I know who struggle with the image they have of themselves. To begin, I want to be the first to say “Stop worrying about your looks.” And then I want to let all y’all know how difficult it is to “stop worrying about your looks”. For people who are about my age, our earlier years were spent trying to be whatever magazines, movies and advertisements told us to be. We struggled with our weight and bought into the cult of fad dieting. In the office where I worked there was a Metra-Cal for Lunch Bunch, a diet pill bunch (conveniently supplied by the employer because Tenuate was compounded on site), Ayds™ were a common sight before a meal, there were the cabbage soupers and the high protein/no carb lunchers. It was safe to say just about everyone in our office was on a diet of some kind. We were either high on company-approved speed or hungry, sometimes both. And if being the skinniest in the office wasn’t enough, there was a very specific dress code (for the women) and in the late sixties “the corporation” closed a deal on skincare products and we all added “skin care” to the mix. I’m still an Oil of Olay kinda gal.
On more occasions than I can count, I’ve had the talk with myself about all of the things I don’t like about the physical me. I didn’t like my hair. It was too curly. I didn’t like the freckles. They were too freckly. My teeth were white enough. My clothing wasn’t “Mary Quant” enough. I wasn’t tall enough. And I certainly wasn’t Twiggy enough. My missives about my image fell on deaf ears because I was either a really bad listener or the things I’ve told myself were utter nonsense. For the record, and for those of you who don’t know me, I’m heading toward the shady side of seventy and I’m actually kind of tired of trying to be someone I’m not. I’m not the seventeen-year-old teenager who was told she needed to lose weight because being five-foot six and one hundred and nine pounds was too heavy. I’m no longer the eighteen-yearold who was told at the “company medical” that one hundred and twenty-two pounds was too heavy. I’m way past being the person who was told she was too pale and a bit of sunbathing is just what she needed to put some bronze on her skin. I’m no longer the person who believed all of the crap I read in magazines or saw in movies. I know, and have worked with, far too many stylists to believe anything I see on the runway. Did blondes always have more fun? I know for a fact Lays Potato Chips definitely taste better than being skinny. And being a fit female wasn’t really a put-off for men. Being a fit female just made some men feel insecure.
I think what needs to change is getting used to my physical self. “This is me.” It’s not going to be a project I start on Diet Mondays and finish on time to squeeze into a size six by New Year’s Day. It’s been a long time since I wore anything less than a size twelve/fourteen, which is still referred to as “over there you’ll find the larger sizes”. My good friend and trainer often glares at me when I pout about the shape I’m in. For fourteen years he’s been saying, “It isn’t about the number on the scale”. And it really isn’t about the number on the scale. So, here I am. I’ve had fourteen years of working out, getting fit, becoming stronger and eating clean. I know weight has nothing to do with my worth, but just when I’m good with being myself I see an advertisement for “Oh Oh Oh Ozempic”. Right at this very moment I know it isn’t the image I have of myself, but it’s the catchytune. It’s a mind-game being played by corporations who don’t care about me. I care about myself.
Hard pass on the Ozempic—and pass the Oreos.
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