I have a graduate degree in Education and too many certifications to count spanning from School Administrator to Digital Media Writing. I went back to school at night, on the floor of my living room at 37 years old while my babies slept (not too peacefully) on the couch above my head in our apartment, drunk on stale Dunkin Donuts coffee and sheer force of will. I worked full-time and did the school and daycare drop-offs and pick-ups myself for a good part of those years. I wore lipstick and rarely ever forgot to make sure my shoes matched on the way out.
I got a 3.99 GPA and cried at missing the mark. I can speak in front of a crowd of 30 or 30,000; it makes no difference to me. I will gladly match wits in literature, music, food, religion, and politics; I love to learn, am unafraid to be wrong (and admit it), and always welcome a challenge.
But put me in a bathing suit in front of people I don’t know and will never speak to again, and I’m royally fucked.
I could feel it. The suction-like grasp the plastic chair cushion had on my inner thigh meat. I knew I should have worn the black one-piece: the one that had a more demure cheek-cut than this forest green, impulse buy off the rack at Target. Too late now. My hindquarters were plastered to the seat with damp lake water and sweat and I had a death grip on a rośe in a can also perspiring in the afternoon heat.
The bathing suit, the numb nodding at small talk, and the rośe for courage were all the result of a too familiar inner debate I always lose, as one does when you are fighting against yourself.
To take up space, or to not take up space.
I will be the first to raise my fists in solidarity with this body positive/neutral/empowerment movement that’s taken over social media. It is with genuine and honest enthusiasm I double-tap on every post with a photo of a woman proudly displaying her body in a way that suggests that she loves it and is living her life accordingly. Hard as I try, however, I cannot get it to translate to home; here in this body. The one where the plastic meets thigh and I cover the violation with a beach towel.
Women have always been told not to take up space. To make themselves smaller, literally and figuratively. When we voice an opinion we know we run the risk of being labeled, “too much,” “domineering,” and “overbearing”. We overcompensate by lowering our voices to soothing, dulcet tones when delivering directives and sending the children of our employees birthday gifts. We tell the played-out joke of the head and the neck. The term, “taking up space” as a woman is familiar now in the corporate setting, and I had thought that I had all but conquered it until I recognized that it also has direct and exacting consequences when it comes to how we exist in our bodies.
I am only comfortable in my skin when it stays inside the lines.
This? The one where it is spilling over its constraints like wisteria onto the bench seat? This one makes me take extra breaths and pan the area for the desperate ogling of the fat woman drinking wine out of a can. All of my wit, charm, intelligence, and humor play second fiddle to cellulite.
Why am I like this?
My voice, my command, my brain- for some reason, I allow them to take up all of the space they have been robbed of for centuries, but, my body?
I have made no space for it here.
Mainly, because it has been too complicated. Health and wellness culture has domineered the imaging to such a degree that I can only see myself as before and after photos.
This is me BEFORE five pregnancies, resulting in two babies. This is me BEFORE working two jobs and taking classes and not eating leftover mac and cheese for breakfast. This is me BEFORE I ate my pandemic feelings.
This is me BEFORE. BEFORE. BEFORE.
I had made space for that body because it didn’t cause any more waves; if I was hellbent on climbing ladders, I had to compromise by looking the part. We can’t demand space everywhere- that would be too much.
Wouldn’t it?
I watched the kids play on the beach, building sand castles with borrowed toys. The sunblock was wearing off and the tender skin right beneath their eyes would be pink and puffy by bedtime. I tried to nod and engage in the conversation about returning to school with the other adults but I was too busy noticing the tiny ant climbing up the ribbing of my bathing suit, over the dimpled valleys of my thigh. He keeps sliding down one side and landing on the seat, walking the line where skin meets plastic as if to say,
“Could you move over, lady? I’m trying to get somewhere.”
I actually think about it. About moving my body to make space for this insect to go about its business. But I don’t.
Sometimes taking up space means filling boardrooms and stadiums and protesting with our voices. And sometimes, it’s letting our thighs feel the breeze on a sticky plastic chair and making an ant go the long way.
I hear you x4 and add in being legitimately OLD. Turn grey & get your Medicare card and you don't take up space because you disappear! In some ways,if I can remember this truth when I'm feeling extra fat in a swimsuit, it's a relief. I'm pretty sure most eyes pass right over me without even spending any judgment on me. But it's also weird after having had Something to Say in some circles for many years. I'm still here, right? Right?