Gentle Cycle Only
Raising a teenage girl’s self-esteem in the era of eating disorders.
Nine colorful taffeta prom gowns litter the fitting-room floor. It looks like someone beat up a rainbow in here. I watch a fresh batch of tears make rivulets down my 17-year-old daughter’s still baby-faced cheeks.
“Size 8? I’m a fat, grotesque beast. I should starve for a month. I want to take a butcher knife and slice off my stomach and chop off my man shoulders.” Her eyebrows perspire as she utters her last sentence in a whisper. “I want to vomit up the frozen yogurt we just ate. Please, mom?”
I flashback on how she’d spit up infant formula when I accidentally overfed her. I feel warm and queasy myself, recognizing these familiar violent explosions. Maybe I’ve spewed about surgeon scalpels instead of butcher knives and perhaps the target was large breasts rather than broad shoulders.
Body hatred wasn’t one of the ‘girly rituals’ I planned on sharing with my daughter along with tea parties and the ballet. We don’t own scales. As long as she ate nourishing and exercised, that’s all that mattered. Dieting to drop five pounds? Would you jump up and down to lose five inches to control your height? Absurd.
I’m all about acceptance and empowerment but now these ludicrous prom dress size labels manifest…
