Reflections on Body Image

Fact:  how you feel about your body dictates what you put on it.

Therefore, I believe body image is a very relevant issue surrounding style, as well as  hot topic in the fashion industry.  So I thought I would share my personal story. As always, feel free to comment and give your experiences as well.

The Story of My Thighs

Ask any group of women which part of their body they are unhappy with, and I bet that most will point to their lower regions, in other words, their butt and thighs.  I don’t know what it is about that area that seems to attract fat cells, cellulite, and consequently, disgust- but I must admit that I am one of these women.  I have an unhealthy relationship with my thighs.

My thighs and I have a long history together, nearly twenty-three years, in fact.  I can’t, however, pick out the exact date that our relationship began to loose shape, moreover, I’m not sure exactly when I first discovered them.  During my prepubescent years, as well as in early puberty, my thighs were just an extension of my legs– legs that were strong and powerful and helped me outrun all the boys in gym class.  I was a tomboy and dressed the part in big, baggy jeans that allowed me to play sports and climb trees.  Although it was quite unconscious, I was hiding my thighs from myself and others.

This didn’t last too long; the gams inevitably came out when I entered middle school.  Stare-at-my-ass-tight flares and baby tees were the style in that pool of raging hormones.  Oh, did I fall victim to that socially and sexually imposed dress code!  This two year period was the only time in my life that I had ever wanted an article of clothing just because everyone was wearing it, so strong was my desire to fit in.  Thirty dollars for a plain cotton tee with the words “Abercrombie & Fitch” printed on the chest?  

“Mother!  No one will EVER talk to me if you don’t buy it for me!”

Though Mom wouldn’t buy me the coveted brand of jeans, the $75 Silvers, it wasn’t a total loss.  Suction-stretch pants were available at any price range.  I had a pair of paper thin, pocketless Mudd jeans that showed off every last curve of my rear.  It may as well have been on a pedestal.  Since, of course, my thighs were also on display, why was I not self-conscious about them, then?  Because I was 14, weighed 90 pounds, and cared only about being stared at by the boys!

I probably didn’t have thighs in middle school.  I might have sprouted them during my freshmen year of high-school, around the time that girls learn that their bodies’ sole purpose of existence is for comparison.  My thighs were no longer just a part of my legs.  They were now smaller-than-Chelsea’s-but-bigger-than-Ashley’s.  They were now my reason to follow my friends to the salad bar everyday at lunch, bypassing the line that served lovely, grease-soaked cheese pizza.  My thighs were now two ugly tumors, marring the appearance of an otherwise decent body.

As high school progressed and my focus on a career in fashion intensified, so did my lust for long, lanky supermodel legs.  All I saw when I flipped through my fashion magazines–besides exquisite clothes that I’ll never be able to afford–were stick-thin thighs attached to a gleeming, toned body.  I had a love/hate relationship with my Vogues.

Things didn’t get any better when I got to college.  The girls just got twiggier, the media got grittier, and the guys, who once drooled over any girl in a mini, got cockier!  I was made all too aware two summers ago, when I was hanging out at the beach with my gang.  It was breezy and warm, and I was enjoying our afternoon excursion, dancing to the music that was playing over the loud speakers.   Seated on a towel next to me was my so-called friend Sean, the spoiled son of Gap’s ex-CEO, who never had to work very hard at making friends because of his money and initial charm.  He looked up at me, pointed at my upper thigh area, and said with a smirk,

“You know, they’ve got a cream for that.”

The good news is that I no longer associate with that guy.  The bad news is that this story doesn’t have a nicely packaged conclusion, complete with a bow on top.  I’m still not particularly fond of my thighs.  I’m still waiting for that magical day when my body and I finally get along.  Of course, it may be me, and not my body, that is being stubborn.  Let’s be honest, I wear a size 1/2 pant.  My thighs can’t be as lumpy and gigantic as I perceive them to be!  Although I wish that one day they will decide to shrink three inches, all I can really do is learn to live with my thighs- and hit the gym twice a week.