MOTHERING

Preoccupied With Physical Perfection

by Fern Kupfer

I was reading in bed when my younger stepdaughter entered the room witha lament: "I hate how I look in those jeans," she said, back arched,surveying herself in the mirror. I glanced up and told her that shelooked just fine.

"I don't," she said tightly. "I don't look fine at all."

"You do, sweetie," I said, putting down my book to show that I waspaying proper attention. I told her how lucky she was to have such longlegs. How a lot of teenage girls would love to have such long legs.

"But look at my behind," she protested.

I said she had a nice behind.

"But what am I going to do about this thick waist?"

Sympathetic, I suggested that she wear loose tops.

"So you do think I have a thick waist?" She put both hands aroundherself as if to will the inches away.

"Katie," I said, feeling my patience seeping slowly like air out ofa tire, "I think you have a very lovely body."

"I don't," she said in a challenging tone. "I need to lose tenpounds. I look fat."

I told her that she wasn't at all fat.

"It's not that I really am fat but..." She went on to detail herflaws.

I interrupted: "No teenager has a perfect figure."

She named two girls in her high school who did.

Well, how long could this have gone on? Quite a bit longer, Isuppose. But I stopped the final "I-hate-my-body..." and told her Ididn't want to hear any more. Before she flounced out of the room, Igave her a suggestion: Instead of this physical preoccupation, why notinstead, work on her character?

Oh, our bodies, ourselves. Whoever made that tie-in certainly hadsomething there about the psyche of the American female. The body, thecontainer of our very soul -- why are we always so displeased, our eyesso critical, our judgments so ungenerous?

Of course, it's the media. As a teenager, I used to devour Seventeenmagazine. I looked at one just the other day (the prom issue) andrealized that those fashion spreads, with all those hard-bodied,flat-bellied models still have the power to make ordinary young girlsfeel simply awful about themselves.

But I also wonder: Before fashion magazines, before MTV videos,before Victoria's Secret catalogs -- did young women actually liketheir bodies any better? Or did the pioneer girls on the wagon trainsometimes wonder how they looked from the rear when they were onhorseback? Did cave women sometimes cut their fur pelts a little fullerto cover the thighs they thought too thick?

When I was a teenager, I was skinny as a pencil. Everything camelittle and late -- breasts, hips, womanly curves. While I was sometimesthe envy of friends who had to diet, I longed for a more substantial -- and, I thought, sexier -- body. Self-conscious? Well, we all were. Sopreoccupied. Holding ourselves in. Holding ourselves up. It's a wonderteenage girls can ever finish a conversation.

I remember summers sitting at my community swimming pool, danglingmy legs into the water. I always sat with my legs pressed hard againstthe concrete, pressing to flatten my skinny thighs. I knew my legslooked better that way. Flexed. Pressed. No matter how uncomfortable Iwas, I didn't change position.

Now, in my late 40s, I can't say that I'm all that pleased aboutgrowing older, but I've settled in. I'm still small-boned, buteverything's shifted. Mostly around my middle. Gravity and age. Andbeing married to a great cook doesn't help. (He's the kind of guy whowill say around 11 o'clock at night: "You know what sounds really goodto me around now ... ?" Then he'll make up something delectable withbrie and Greek olives.)

I look at women in their fabulous 50s - Jane Fonda, Raquel Welch-- who give attention to their bodies that seems more fitting onyounger, more self-conscious, less successful women. How long can thosebodies be maintained? And really, aren't there better things to spendone's time thinking about? (Truth be told, Jane Fonda's lithe limbs havemore to do with genetics -- having lithe-limbed Henry as a father, thanthey do with hours of aerobics.)

No conversation I have with Katie will convince her of this now.That, really, it could be very cool if she didn't care as much. That shecould have a lot more fun if she weren't so concerned with watching herphysical self coming and going and checking the mirror for flaws.

Me, I'm glad I don't have to be there any longer, sitting with mylegs pressed against the concrete on the side of the pool. One of thegood things about getting older is that you shouldn't have to give adamn. Now I'm just going to wear loose tops and work on my character.

Fern Kupfer is a novelist and writing professor at Iowa State University. She is a frequent contributor to Working Moms' Internet Refuge.

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