why I hate myself in the morning

Iíve had a thing for fashion magazines since I was in grade school and got that first subscription to ëTeen. I scoured the pages for new hair cuts and makeup tips, and later for diets and exercise routines. Those magazines always held out hope for me, hope that I could finally make myself into something other than the ugly little smart girl that I was doomed to be. I started shaving when I was in fifth grade, having fully absorbed the message that body hair is a no-no for girls, pretty girls; I wouldíve shaved my arms, too, if Iíd had the option; once I made the mistake of getting Nair on my arms and having bald spots for a couple of weeks, which was almost worse than the long, dark hairs were on their own. Of course, I wasnít allowed to wear makeup right away, but I had it and experimented with it. I was just trying to figure things out, figure out how to cover up my outcast exterior so I couldnít be pegged right off, although the attempt was pretty useless since I was in school with people whoíd known me since kindergarten. Soon I was getting Seventeen, as well.

The thing is, nothing made a difference: not the makeup, not the hair, not the advice columns. Eventually, I settled into being a freak, and then it was the mid-eighties and the Go-Goís were overweight and dressed in vintage clothes and in the circles I traveled in outside of school, being interesting was the best thing. I dressed in black and had hair and makeup like Siouxsie Sioux and found that freedom lay in living outside of the norm. My goal became being uniqueówhich I seemed well-situated for from the outsetóso what wasnít black had to be interesting, had to be all mine. Going to Catholic school meant relying upon accessories for self-expression, along with hair and makeup. At one point I sported Adam Ant-like stripes on my cheeks; although I now wonder what I was thinking, it made sense at the time. Seventeen in the ë80ís sported some pretty punky clothes and accessories, so Iíd get obsessed with funky purses or a certain pair of shoes, and try to find something like them in Akron, or ordered from a catalogue. Towards the end of high school, I subscribed to W and Elle, going for the more sophisticated looks and more interesting horoscopes. Not that these magazines featured fashions for Everywoman, or even a bold woman; even rich women would have a difficult time finding a reason to wear those fashions.

Once I got to college, the magazines stopped, and the only ones I read were at the salon (after I stopped cutting and coloring my own hair). But here I am, almost 30, and theyíre my guilty secretóI wouldnít call it pleasure. I hide them so people who come over wonít see them and have their image of me ruined. I am the anti-glamour woman, shaving once or twice a year (some years), dressing in whatever, trying to be comfortable. This year I got bored and bought some purple Prescriptives lip lacquer and a Kohl pencil from Origins, but taking that step went against the very grain of who I think I am; even in my makeup days, I kept my lips plain. The magazines are like my other deep, intensely embarrassing secret: if I could get liposuction for free and without the chance of trauma, Iíd do it in a minute. I hate this about myself, that Iím concerned with what my ass looks like, that it matters so much when thereís no reason that it should. After all, no-one else has problems with my ass; in fact, certain individuals are rather fond of it. And itís certainly a waste of my time and energy.

I hate the fact that Iím not over my obsession with these magazines, that Iím still looking for some key piece of information that will make my life infinitely easier, as if thereís something everyone else knows but Iím missing. When I go to the gym I head right for the magazine rack, to see what people have left behind; I have to force myself not to take any home. Am I eating the very best breakfast? Are there snacks out there that will allow me to feel virtuous? How can I diversify and maximize my exercise routine? Whatís better: elliptical trainer or treadmill? Can I find some new fragrance, skin cream, something to give me a lift? Some easy fix? Anything?

Loathing the old hope that crops up in me, I continue to read the stories and look at the models and get angry. Even the one magazine I subscribe to, Shape, has reader-models who are perfect, and though it purports to be for real women, the truth is that most real women arenít comfortable wearing shorts that barely cover their ass, and theyíd be showing some cellulite if they were confident enough to do so. Self magazine ran a story on all of these ìreal womenî who weighed 125 pounds, discussing the various ways they maintained their weights; some had to really struggle, while others ate everything. The thing is, all of these women were 5í7î, and I think 125 is perhaps not a median weight for a woman of that stature. I weigh that much and Iím considerably shorter, so what does this say about me? And whatís so magic about 125? Why donít they go all the way and shoot for 110? Mainly I stick with fitness magazines, although like the others, they want thin fit people, and the clothes they feature outside of the fitness arena are beyond my means. Occasionally I pick up Glamour, read the features about who has the most partners, men or women, and how each feels about it. I cut out some of the more obscene pictures of runway models, make collages of fashion zombies.

Through all of the propaganda, I struggle to accept this body Iíve fought against for so many years, over half of my life, vomiting and not really believing that was a problem. I love the gym because I can see what real women look like with their clothes off, what stomachs are, what butts and thighs look like. I try not to compare myself with real women, just as I try not to compare with the models. And Iím almost there, almost accepting; Iíve almost let go of the self-loathing. Yet I havenít let go of the magazines, havenít accepted that Iím normal, not a freak of nature. I need more gazing, more proof. Maybe someday Iíll findóor foundóthe magazine that tells women theyíre all right, whoever they are, whatever they way, just the way they are. And instead of Seventeen, little girls will grow up reading about real people wearing affordable clothing and exercising because they like it, not out of self-hatred. So we can all love ourselves in the morning.