Shirts: A poem on body image
CW: body image, intentional weight loss
Hello, friends!
Following my performance of Pergolesi’s Stabat mater with my colleague, Michaela Kelly, I’m excited to have freed up some time and headspace to start writing again. This is the first time I’m publishing a poem. I wrote it yesterday morning on the train going into work.
Some background: I gained around 40lbs during the pandemic. Some of it was simple overeating and stress, but if you followed my #WorkOfRemission series on Instagram, you might remember I also had reconstructive ACL surgery in the first week of March. This heavily limited my ability to move at first, but then allowed me to do things I haven’t done in years. I’m thrilled to say I’m in great shape: I’m in a shape that can run, jump, climb, and dance without fear of my left leg giving out underneath me. But that shape of Lucas is bigger than it was before the surgery.
The thing is, I don’t really feel any shame in my unclothed body–it’s only when I get dressed that I start to feel bad, because none of my clothing fits anymore. To make matters worse, I started a new job that requires me to dress in office attire. I used to fit a slim small, so acknowledging I’d gained weight, I went out and purchased a handful of medium “slim fit” shirts, as well as some pairs of pants and shorts. I was heartbroken to see that even those did not fit my current shape.
That was about a month ago. I’ve been good to my body since then, giving it the food and exercise it needs, and I’m happy to say I’ve already begun to lose some of that weight. But as I sat on the train this morning in a shirt that clearly didn’t fit me, tension crawling up my back and down my legs, I felt that I needed to be kinder to my body by giving it clothing that makes me feel good. So I wrote this poem–and when I got off the train, I marched straight into Primark at DTX and bought myself a “regular fit” shirt. I was a little late–but at least I could bring my mind the work I needed to do, instead of fixating on the weight I need to lose to squeeze my miraculous, sacred, priceless body into a $12 shirt.
Speaking of bringing my mind to places: Next week I’m beginning another series of 500 word essays on the topic of “Overthinking.” I’m really excited to share my experiences surrounding this odd phenomenon, and I hope that you will follow me on Facebook so that you can read it when it’s released.
(Spoiler: I don’t think “Overthinking” is real. GASP!!!)
Without any further ado, please enjoy my poem, “Shirts.”
Shirts
It sits tight around my midsection,
Urgently pressing
Each moment
Reminding me
Of what my body was
This garment was a sleeve my slender self slipped simply into,
“Slim fit” was not an accusation then,
It was a celebration of everything I was not:
Fat.
I was no longer the child who finished the compulsory mile run last,
My faster classmates jeering–or were they cheering?
It’s hard to say.
It felt the same,
It was the shame of being the lineup’s largest liability
When the teams were picked for dodgeball:
A bigger target who moves slow.
I liked to imagine my size made me stronger,
But the real truth is I couldn’t throw for shit.
But back to the shirt.
Couldn’t this slim fit cut me some slack?
Doesn’t it know I ran two miles last night “just to clear my head,”
Then said “that was fun” in the end?
Doesn’t it know I drink diet soda,
I have salads for lunch,
Skip mimosas at brunch,
Doing more and more to appear to be less,
I even sometimes skip meals when I’m stressed!
“Doesn’t it know that,” I ask,
Knowing the shirt knows nothing at all,
It cannot will itself to hold my body more softly any more than I can contort myself to fit within its limits.
We are sovereign, the shirt and I,
And if I stretch its fabric to suit me better
I’ll find it misshapen at best, at worst, ripped.
The truth is, it just doesn’t fit.
So I fold it away in a basket,
Maybe in three more weeks it will work,
Though I’m late for my job in the meantime,
Getting dressed for a gig shouldn’t hurt.
For today, I might be a bit stocky,
But that is not an indictment of worth:
I don’t need a “better” body.
I need another shirt.
Stay honest, stay you.
–L
P.S.: A quick word on fatness, weight loss, and body positivity.
It’s a shame that our measure of a person’s health has been tied to the Body Mass Index. It’s a greater shame that fat bodies are not honored for their softness, their elegance, their exuberance. It’s a shame that we live in a culture where “fat” and “beautiful” are treated as mutually exclusive. And I wish I could somehow separate my journey towards health and fitness from that, but I cannot.
I do my best. I become excited about milestones that aren’t scale numbers: I want to build enough upper body strength to practice crow pose in yoga. I want to run a 5k with an average mile pace under 10:00. I want to get really strong so I can yeet bricks at fascists and the power structures that uphold them at speeds of over 70mph. I try to focus on these things (things my body can do, instead of things for it to “be”), but it would be completely disingenuous of me to say that I don’t also want a broad chest, a narrow waist, and bulging arms. I can’t help it. Hollywood got me. Maybe my attractions are colonized, but there’s no helping that now.
Just as I try to be gracious towards my body for what it is, I try to be gracious towards my mind for what it wants. I’m not sure I know how to fight internalized fatphobia and honor my want for a slimmer, muscled body. If anyone has any suggestions, I’m really happy to hear them.