My mother’s youthful spirit seems at odds with her aging body. On sunny afternoons, she twirls around the living room, belting out ABBA tunes loud enough to be heard by the neighbors. Despite her almost 80 years, she dreams of traveling the globe, devouring every book, and perhaps even mastering a new language. Yet, her primary preoccupation remains her appearance.
In many respects, my mother is still a teenager at heart, even if her body tells a different story. I often compare her to my husband’s mother, who, despite being only slightly younger, engages in deep discussions about politics and sports. A friend’s mother is continually on the go, taking road trips and cruises in search of adventure. My mother, however, struggles with focus. She misplaces everything: keys, cash, jewelry, and occasionally her own car. Sometimes she even forgets her own address.
Yet, there’s one thing she never forgets: her ideal weight. Not a single phone call passes without her mentioning her latest diet—how she’s aiming to shed a few pounds and had a mere slice of cheese or a piece of lettuce for lunch.
For as long as I can remember—truly decades—my mother has been on some diet or another. She might lose a couple of pounds, only to be lured back by her fondness for pie, cake, and bread. “To hell with it,” she’ll declare, happily serving herself seconds. The very next day, she’s back on the diet train, reminding me how clever she is with her eating habits, even though she regularly tumbles off her bike, ending up with bruises that linger for weeks.
Living thousands of miles away means my visits are infrequent, and our first moments together after a separation often involve a weight assessment. “You look so good today,” she’ll say on a good day, but more often I hear, “Oh, you’re dressed so sloppy,” to which my father chimes in, explaining that I’m on a road trip and need to be comfortable.
She seems unaware of how her comments affect me. On the phone, she expresses how much she misses me and how delightful it is to spend time together. While it can be enjoyable, it’s also disheartening. My heart aches at her belief that she should embody a Marilyn Monroe figure even at her age. At what point do women really say, “To hell with it” and mean it? Approaching my mid-40s, I find myself wondering the same.
I ponder when I will stop equating my worth with clothing sizes. I question when I will stop reminiscing about my younger self’s weight. Am I simply following in my mother’s footsteps, endlessly wanting to lose those stubborn extra pounds yet never truly trying?
Weight is a significant topic, yet in reality, it holds little value. I don’t wish to be remembered for my weight or the comparison between my teenage and elderly selves. It seems to matter greatly to my mother, but I struggle to understand why. Some days, I encourage her, saying, “You can do it, Mom.” Other days, I want to shout, “Who cares! Enjoy your food; you’ve earned it.”
She certainly has. My mother has devoted her life to hard work, navigating illness, family disputes, and raising three rebellious children. She has managed bills, sprung us from tight spots, and even driven elderly neighbors to the grocery store when she could barely afford gas. She deserves a slice of cake, with extra frosting. She deserves to have a positive self-image.
Just like a teenager, she won’t truly absorb those affirmations. However, I hear the things I wish I could convey to her. I remind myself that a piece of cake doesn’t diminish my worth. The dress label doesn’t define me; my life’s value is measured in memories—past and present. Life is about embracing experiences, like dancing alone to music that’s just too loud for the neighbors.
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In summary, my relationship with my mother reflects our shared struggles with body image and weight. While I grapple with similar thoughts and patterns, I understand that life is about cherishing experiences rather than focusing solely on physical appearance.
Keyphrase: struggles with body image
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