Becoming me.

I was really astonished to arrive at middle school and realize that how I looked actually mattered. I started 5th grade in wranglers and boots because I was a barn girl. It still worked for me then. Middle school, not so much. I was thrust into a sea of confusion I usually like to blame on having a mother unconcerned with vanity, and not having an older sister. I didn’t know that if I wrote “I love Maggie” on my hand the girls would call me a lesbian and laugh at me. Maggie was my horse at the time. I didn’t know that if I didn’t wear brand name clothing I wouldn’t be able to make many friends. I was unaware of brand names until 8th grade, that was when I asked my parents to pull me out of public middle school and put me in a magnet school. I loved the few friends I had in middle school, but life overall was brutal there. The magnet school was a breath of fresh air. My mission in life was to be popular, be pretty, and be liked by other people. The 8th grade year was the best of my life, I still didn’t have an older sister, but I made several friends who did have them and I learned about makeup, eyeliner, and jeans that had a little flare in them.

This prepared me for public high school, sort of. Somehow I still ended up sitting by myself in the cafeteria for the first semester because I just didn’t have the courage to sit with other people my age. I even had several of the “less than par” people at MPHS, if you can imagine there being those, take my lunch several times. They walked up and looked at me, and I slid the tray to them and left. I hate confrontation, to this day. Second semester went much better for me. I made friends that invited me to their lunch table, and my life was forever changed.

But I was never normal. I don’t think for a day I was ever “miss popular girl” because let’s face it, I have been 5’2 and 90 pounds since I was 14 years old. And no matter how many girls fuss about losing weight and wanting to be in shape, no one if they are honest wants to be as small as me. So began a journey of, although I could not gain weight, maybe I could make myself look normal. Even size zero jeans would not fit me. I would collect cotton leggings and exercise pants and wear them under my jeans so I would have thicker legs. I would buy foundation shades darker than my face so I could look like I didn’t have such fair skin. I would even put it on my lips because suddenly I resented the nickname “Snow White.” I didn’t want to be who I was. I hated tank tops and mini skirts because I felt like my legs looked like a flamingos. My uncle would always say, “Hey Summer, you got a string hanging out of your sleeve….oh wait, it’s your arm!” *ensuing laughter* My Grandma has had secret suspicions since I was 12 that I have an eating disorder, despite the fact she's seen me devour plenty of food.  Wait, did I say secret suspcicion? I meant that she asks me about it regularly. Not to mention, when you are as small as me, people can’t imagine why it would be offensive to ask,

“Oh my God, do you have an eating disorder?”
“You are so tiny, I could wrap my hands around your wrists ten times! Can I try it?”
“How old are you? My friends and I are placing bets!”
“Don’t you want to put on weight?”
“Why would you want to be so thin?”

Well, I don’t. After this constant torment, as a teenager I couldn’t imagine that anyone would ever want to date me, much less, marry me! One of my male interests in high school sent the message through a friend, “I would date you…if you were ten pounds heavier.” I finally figured out that I wasn’t going to be normal. And if I wasn’t going to be normal, I was going to be different. So I dyed my hair red. And blonde. And black. And black and blonde and red at the same time. I started wearing thrift store t-shirts with my “stuffed jeans,” and belts, and colorful makeup. I cut all of my hair off. I pretended to like art and music. Hard core, screamo music, if you can imagine me rocking out to that in my classy, gold Camry.

I tried partying too. If you want to be like “everyone else,” smoking and partying are usually an accurate place to start. I continued to wear cotton pants underneath my jeans in 100 degree weather and my hips would ache because the hem would be too tight on me. I paid big bucks for what I would call a “water bra”. At the beach one year I met a special someone at nighttime, and when I saw him during the day in my bathing suit I hid in a towel. I wear one pieces for the sake of hiding more than modesty. Full leggings, skirts, and shorts have been out of the question for a long time.  

These were my favorite jeans to stuff!

My Mom would always tell me and my sister that we shouldn’t worry whether or not we will find husbands because some men like curvy girls, and some men like little petite girls. And I would think, cute petite girls, not emaciated, skeleton girls like myself.  One of the first things Paul ever said to me when we met in person was, "Summer, you are not as thin as you made yourself sound. I thought you were dying from the way you described yourself!"

Blondes have more fun?  No, dying roots every other month is not fun.

But guess what, I’m writing this blog because I had a revelation the other night. Paul was getting off work late, yet again the other night. I went to brush my teeth before bed and looked in the mirror and thought that my face had my day written all over it. It was just a long day with the kids. Bedtime wears me slap out. My hair was knotted and in a messy bun, my makeup had all smeared off. I was in the frumpiest pants I own, and was too lazy to change out of the shirt I’d worn to church that day so it became part of my mismatched pj ensemble. I thought that maybe it would be fun to look nice for Paul, though he would not be home until 9:45. Because, why not? He worked a hard shift and he married a girl that he loves, and I am grateful for it, so why do I always let him come home to frump girl? I own nice, matching pajamas, I own nice gowns. So I brushed my hair. I put on makeup at 9:15 at night. And I was thinking, why am I putting on makeup for my husband, geeze…, but that thought kind of lingered there for a minute and I thought about why I don’t put on makeup usually. Because Paul loves me for who I am, and I trust that. I know he loves me. I don’t try to impress him, or feel like I have to. I actually married someone who loves me for me. Hurray! Then I began happily celebrating in the bathroom and sort of smiling at myself as I applied my lipstick and fluffed my hair, because all of those things I doubted would ever happen have come to pass. And from there I started thinking about how different I am in general from who I used to be.  I am happy with who I am. I don’t like being “skinny Minnie” as people like to call me, or even yesterday someone shook me and said, “Do you ever eat?” I just smiled, and told them that “I had to get pregnant for a reason, ya know?” And we all laughed and I shrugged it off because I just don’t care anymore. I don’t stuff my jeans with layers so I have a figure. I avoid padded bras because that isn’t who I am. And although I secretly think I look the best I’ve ever looked in a puffy ski-suit I am trying to understand that is not how God made me. 

The night of our engagement...so happy to find someone not embarrased by my bony fingers!

I don’t know why I had this on my heart. I can so remember like yesterday thinking that no one would ever want to be with someone like me. I have spent my entire life hiding behind the embarrassment that my figure brought me hoping that someone would like my personality enough to not humiliate me about my weight.  I regularly have identity crises as I tell Paul, “actually, I don’t like that band,” even though I listened to them just a couple of months ago. Or when I do the math and realize I have not dyed my hair in years. It makes me smile a little. I am starting to become the person God made me. It feels good. I am not a popular, trendy girl (though I probably covet “that girl” the most!). I am not a good photographer. I have the messiest car in the neighborhood. I wear tennis shoes that are too big for me because they were cheap at a thrift store. I am probably the cheapest person that I know. I don’t like putting things in my hair or spending time on my hair. When I buy things for my hair, losing them is just imminent. I like bangs, even when they aren’t in style. I know nothing about pop culture. I hate suspense. I am terrible at video games.

But overtime, maybe it is just growing older, I’ve started to discover myself. What I really like. Not be that person behind a veil. So I’ve been thinking about it, and the truth is,

I like to garden.
I like to paint.
I like knowing how to sew. (sewing is just a different story)
I like to write.
I like watching romantic movies, and reading romantic novels.
I like to drink hot herbal tea while having theological discussions with my husband.
I like my natural hair color.
I love holding babies.
I love bringing babies into the world.
I love animals, with all of my heart. (the more hair, slobber, and dirt the better!)
I just give the glory to God for this journey. And after Paul spoke the other day at church, the lady next to me nudged me in the side with her elbow and said, “girl, you picked a good one,” and that is true too. I think Paul’s encouragement (“I think you are beautiful!”) has really set me free from wanting to be different.

Please don’t think that I never wish I was someone else. I struggle with certain elements of myself, a lot. I will always be trying to gain weight, because well, I want to live, ya know! But I think a great deal of my life I struggled with my physical appearance especially, and how I can tend to “stick out like a sore thumb” in a crowd full of really pretty, classy, young girls…with hips. I was just thinking last night how that era in my life is over.

So today, for the sake of vanity, though I rarely think of such things anymore except before church (Lord knows that is where I should be vain), I bought fingernail polish. I haven’t bought that stuff, nor worn in it years. But why not? I want to enjoy being me. And I have to start the uphill climb again every time someone says something about my weight…on nearly a daily basis. But I am so glad that my husband loves me, and I think, maybe, possibly I am starting to also.