Little Old Me

I always liked the concept of bones. Bones feel like the blueprint of your shape.

Every woman has body image issues. And I am not in the least exempt.

I don’t have “Do I look good in this?” body issues, I have “Ugly crying in the fitting room” body issues.  

I’ve worked on this for many years, through praying, listening to wise counsel, and repeating the verse “fearfully and wonderfully made.”

But this issue is never more acute than at the dermatologist office.

When you reach a certain age, you are required to go to the dermatologist so that she may check you for any suspicious spots. This requires you to stand in your underwear in front of another person and let them examine your body.

More than just looking you up and down, they write on you.  Circle things, put checks and X’s by things. This is routine, although I think they’re starting to take liberties. The last time I went, I swear they wrote a frowny face on some parts and an LOL on others. It’s what I imagine The Biggest Loser is like in Russia.

When you first arrive at the office the kindly nurse ask you to strip down to your underpants and put on a some sort of paper towel outfit: crop top robe and a larger paper towel to cover your legs.  It never quite covers my whole lap.  There is always an outer thigh/middle of the butt situation that catches a draft.

Then you sit on a table.  Let’s break this down.

When you are wearing pants or jeans and you sit, the fabric of said garment kinda holds your thighs in their shape.  Now, even if you aren’t wearing those things and you sit on a chair, the extra “wobbly bits” kind of suspend in the air around the seat.  But when you are wearing no pants and sit on a table, there is no place for the extra flab to go.  It just spreads like a lump of dough thrown on a counter.

So there I sit, a lump of dough, wrapped in a paper towel, waiting to be examined.

At this point, I’m trying to practice good self talk.  I’m attempting to stop a body image shame spiral.  I tell myself nobody’s perfect.  That everyone has things they wish they could change.  That this office and these doctors have seen “normal” looking people every day.

Now, this moment is one of those times I know God has a sense of humor.

In the middle of my pep talk, the nurse practitioner, my examiner, walks in.  

In hindsight, she probably wasn’t a fairy princess, but she could have been.  She was petite, thin, and beautiful, with straight brown hair and small features.  And I mentally looked skyward and said, “Are you kidding me? You’re hilarious sending her in here. You got me.  You got me.”

While I’m chuckling with God over the dermatologist being the absolute last person I wanted to walk in, she leans over to the other nurse and asks if she knows where the extra small gloves are, because the ones she’s wearing are too big.

And I look down at my hands, my large hands.  Not long fingers, mind you. No, I have stubby fingers that stretch out from a large California king-size palm.

I look down at my hands, and I hear a word from the Lord.  He whispers in my ear, “Steph, I never meant for you to be small.”

Now, I need to be a good steward of my body, and there is weight to lose, but I will never be petite.  Even down to the very bones of me, the original blueprint declares that I will never be small.  I am tall and broad, with shoulders that resemble some girls’ knee caps. I have cherub features and kinky hair. I’m outgoing and silly.

I can want to be healthy, but I can’t hate everything God has made me.  

I cannot wish myself away.