From This Moment On

by Shania Twain

  The next summer, I started wearing short shorts, too. I was becoming more aware of the fact that I was a girl, with bulges and curves that boys admired. I was still very athletic and masculine in attitude, to the point of strapping down my breasts, as they painfully and annoyingly bounced out of control if I moved any faster than walking. I had to control these balloons that had grown without my consent.

  I managed to maintain my boyish thighs until I was probably in my early twenties. It’s hard to say because, to be honest, I avoided wearing bathing suits altogether in my teens after coming out of the lake one time with one breast completely hanging out, for what felt like the whole world to see. There were no full-length mirrors around our house, and no one would have seen my thighs to notice them transforming.

  By the time I became a photographed celebrity in my thirties, I not only had a floppy, soft, orange-peel texture to my thighs, I had cellulite. I was horrified. I wasn’t fat—in fact, I was quite thin—but still had this horrible texture to my legs when I squeezed down on them. It wasn’t obvious when I was standing still and in flattering light, but squeeze them down with my fingers or put me in the wrong light, and it was obvious that I had this dreaded female nightmare.

  In my daily life, I see girls and women all over the planet walking around with tummies bulging out of their shirts and thighs flapping around, as if they are proud of their earned chub. After all, we have babies, cravings, menstrual cycles that keep us famished no matter how much we cram into ourselves, and moods that demand immediate and desperate relief that only something fattening and indulgent will satisfy. Hello, chocolate, potato chips, alcohol, ice cream, and so on.

  I envy girls who wear their extra weight like a badge of honor; clearly, they are comfortable in their own skin. They are not worried about what I or anyone else thinks of them. These girls are not miserably avoiding the foods they love and forcing themselves to be more active than they want to be. They are eating what they want, when they want, and not apologizing for it. How their bodies end up after that is not their concern. I admire the sense of freedom they possess. But at the same time, I also hear so many of them eventually moan about how they wish they could lose weight. I think that describes most women, and at least every woman I know personally.

  My conclusion is that it’s more important to be comfortable with your weight, no matter what it is, as long as you are healthy and energetic enough to meet the personal goals and demands you have set in your life. Those might be the ability to kick a soccer ball around with your child, host a Sunday gathering with your family, manage your job and domestic life without it completely exhausting you, not avoiding sexy lingerie if you secretly wish to wear it, feeling sexy and attractive to your lover, and having enough energy at the end of the day to actually engage in intimacy. If you meet your own expectations, what are you questioning? I ask myself this every day. The expectations that the fashion industry puts on us are not realistic.

  Throughout the peak of my career, right up to the time I turned forty, my body went through interesting changes. I worked like a dog with little time to pee, let alone eat. I was always a very conscientious eater and made sure that my few bites between interviews or performances were light and healthy. I remained thin because of this but often had serious energy lows. I’m still not sure if some of the extreme exhaustion was due to how little I ate, lack of sleep, or simply being overworked. There were times when those around me would comment that I was too thin and needed to eat more. I wasn’t deliberately trying to be skinny; I just couldn’t keep the weight on. I even went to the extreme of adding cream and cheese to as many foods as I could. I was never into greasy foods, but I decided to add natural fats to my diet. My personal assistant was adding pure heavy cream to my breakfast and fruit milkshakes, lots of cheese to my lunches and dinners, and I enjoyed pancakes on Sundays made with whole cream and served with melted butter and lots of maple syrup. I can tell you, if I tried that now, I’d be as big as a house.

  When I was touring, I was at my slimmest. There were a couple of promotional periods when I’d gained back a bit of weight, and I remember it bothering me. I recall looking in the mirror and gauging my limit thusly: if my thighs touched when I placed my ankles together, I needed to lose weight. Honest! I was constantly in and out of designer clothes and dresses that were almost always uncomfortably tight and unkind in exposing all my body flaws. Each time I had a major event—a national television appearance, for example—I would make sure that the designer was aware of any changes in my measurements so that there wouldn’t be any last-minute disasters or humiliation for me. Designers would often comment to me how horrified they were when I added a little weight. It was traumatic to have to announce such a “catastrophe.” Imagine, not only did I have to admit my weight gain, but I also had to measure myself in all the key places and give these incriminating details on paper to an assistant, who would hand it to another assistant, who would bring it to the designer—who would then most likely cringe in response.

  Most top fashion designers have models displaying their magnificent drapes like human clothes hangers. Honestly, in many cases, the catwalk model is unrealistically thin to the point of literally resembling skin and bones. These skeletal figures make any other body type look fat and unworthy of wearing the fashions, and it’s enough to make you never want to shop again. I never understood the logic in showcasing clothing most women would never have the confidence to wear and are actually intimidated by. I’ve often said out loud while watching certain fashion shows, “As if I could ever wear that!” After all, most women simply aren’t walking bone racks in real life unless they are seriously ill with an eating disorder, and neither are the majority of us six feet tall and up. We can’t wear this stuff and actually look good, in reality.

  I always had full breasts even when I was at my thinnest; my brothers nicknamed me “Leeny, Weeny, Chesty Morgan” after the giant-boobed sex symbol, as I was a size 32D by the time I was thirteen, with a very small frame barely supporting them. Once they reached full inflation, I eventually gave up tying them down to prevent the relentless chin boxing when I ran, and decided to cut back on sports instead. I carried on with basketball, though; I discovered that wearing two underwire granny-style bras kept me secure enough to jump around without getting black eyes. In all seriousness, this worked well until I would eventually discover the luxury of the sports bra.

  As for food, it has been a source of guilt for me all my life, but for different reasons. When I was a kid growing up in an impoverished home, I had to make sure that I never took more than my share so everyone got some. Now, in my midforties, I feel guilty for telling my son that he’s not allowed to have a cookie while I have one myself but know full well I shouldn’t.

  Used to be that I could eat a lot and never gain an ounce. In my teens, an age when many girls start putting on the pounds, I could eat three eggs over easy with two slices of buttered toast and a bowl of cereal for breakfast; french fries and a triple-scoop banana split for lunch; and then a meatball sandwich with cheese for dinner. That was often topped off with a late-night pizza during band practice nights.

  By the time I was in my midteens, my parents were doing better and better each year, so that even the cupboards at home were rarely bare now. Being a teenager, however, I was more attracted to eating out with my friends. You know what that means: high-calorie fast food with little nutritional value. It didn’t show on me, though. I stayed thin, maybe due to how active I was. As I grew older and understood more about nutrition, I not only learned to avoid commercially prepared foods but became a vegetarian. I’ve been meatless now for eighteen years.

  I’ve worn many different styles of hair in my life, from long and straight to high and curly, long and curly, slicked back, bangs, no bangs, even cropped and reddish for the “That Don’t Impress Me Much” video. I was always looking for something new for interest’s sake on my own part, and on one occasion, I got it in my head that I wanted braids. Lots of casca
ding, cornrow braids that fell long down my back. Well, braids I got. An expert on braiding hair came in to create my wish look for the special I was filming the following night in Dallas, Texas, before a live audience.

  Daisy, the lovely lady who came to braid my hair, arrived with mounds of brunette extensions to weave into my own locks. My hair was already very long, but I didn’t have enough of it to braid and have a full enough look. I’d never had this done before, although on many occasions I’d had extensions of different kinds. Just never a weave and braiding, cornrow style. Of the other extension methods I’ve had done, the longest was my first and took three hours. It was for the video for “The Woman in Me,” which was shot in Egypt at the base of the great pyramids. Those extensions were sewn onto a series of cornrows braided flush to my scalp, each spaced about an inch apart so that my own hair fell free in between to create a natural blend for a natural look. These extensions were put in to give length, as they were longer than my own. Mostly I used extensions for volume or texture rather than for length, as I kept my own hair quite long for many years anyway and I often performed with just my natural hair.

  The extensions that Daisy was going to weave in for the Dallas special took much longer than anticipated. We started before dinner, and at midnight she was still far from finished. I had ten o’clock rehearsal the next morning and would not get a chance to rest again till showtime. It was a very busy day due to the fact that we would be filming, so extra rehearsal and staging were required throughout the day.

  As the hours passed and it became clear how long this cornrowing hair-extension adventure was taking, I didn’t know if I should pull the plug on the idea and just call it quits, losing the several hours already invested, or carry on and hope it moved faster now that there was a rhythm going.

  It’s painful getting cornrows put in, especially when it’s a tight weave like what Daisy was doing. She was extending my own hair with longer braids, so the weight of the hair was pulling on the rows braided against my scalp, and the cornrows had to be solid. My head was throbbing, I was exhausted, but I didn’t have the heart to pressure Daisy to go any quicker, as she was working as fast as she could. I felt so bad for her own fatigue after all the hours of fingering through what seemed to be miles of hair. She was a trouper and said that she could carry on and was determined to finish. So we carried on, but it was five o’clock in the morning before we would finish. I was ready to cry and so upset to think that I’d have to go through such an important show having pulled an all-nighter, all for the sake of beauty. “A look.” I felt stupid for making the call in the first place to experiment with my hair just before a crucial event such as filming a live television special. There was enough pressure as it was. But how was I to know it would take so long? Not even Daisy, the expert, had anticipated it taking all night.

  Nevertheless, the show went on, the lighting and cameras did their job hiding any fatigue that might have shown around my eyes from the lack of sleep, and I did the special with all the cascading, braided hair I’d wished for. Beauty definitely has its price at times, and this experience was one of the expensive ones for me. Hair is always the most tiring of the beauty needs I have when I’m working, as it requires what seems to be endless pulling, tugging, fingering, scrunching, pinning, slicking, spraying, and fussing. I often find that maintaining beauty is one of my most shackling commitments to the expectations of any onlooker. If I were ever to completely liberate myself from the need to live up to my public image, the first thing I would do is shave my head. Of course, I would look plain ugly if I did this, as I have such a goofy head shape, probably due to my having been born a blue baby. Some people have beautifully shaped heads and would look great bald. Well, I’m not one of those people. Still, I figure that maybe when I’m old, I’ll take the plunge and shave it off. Free myself of the constant battle to tame it to a decent shape and flatter my face. I actually have contemplated, at times, shaving it off now and just wearing wigs. That way I would only have to worry about my hair when I go out of the house, and it would take about thirty seconds to decide what hair I wanted. At least I’d have diversity at my fingertips, and changing my mind at the last second could actually be fun instead of stressful.

  Shortly after I turned forty-four, I sat for a photo shoot. Now, I am one of these girls who needs to wake up very early in order to look good for the camera. Otherwise I just look … ordinary; at best, someone with potential with bags under her eyes. Trust me: without professional hair and makeup, I don’t look like Shania the superstar/celebrity/sex symbol. That’s true of most people in the entertainment world, if they’re being frank. We rely on costly “glam squads” (hair, makeup, and wardrobe professionals) to reach into their bag of tricks and work their magic. They can make anyone look good.

  Anyway, the photo session went wonderfully, and I was thrilled with the results. The pictures masked my flaws and made me appear sexy, taller, younger, and fitter. What more could a girl ask for? I left there for the airport feeling good about myself. Of course, the mere act of projecting confidence enhances a person’s appearance, and vice versa.

  I stroll into the waiting lounge and immediately sense myself being “noticed” by my predominately male fellow travelers. At my age, I savor any flattery directed my way. Why not?

  I sit down to wait for the plane to start boarding and get myself situated. Out comes my BlackBerry, a computer, and a book. Suddenly there’s a shift in the air. It’s a good thing I didn’t take my two minutes of male appreciation for granted, because now there’s a new girl in town, and she’s blonde and beautiful, runway height, fit and thin, seemingly flawless—and, above all, young. I think I’m doing pretty well for my age, but I don’t hold a candle to this beauty. Every man’s eyes are superglued to her, and I’m thinking, Well, that glory was short-lived. I have to admit that even I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I did develop a bit of an attitude fart as she flounced up to the food bar and, of course, nibbled rabbitlike at some grapes and poured herself a bottled water. Ugh! Why not go for the cheese, cake, or crepes? Even a sandwich would have gotten her off the hook with me, but, jeez, she was living out her perfection too much for my comfort. Eat some potato chips, for crying out loud! I grumbled to myself.

  All right, all right, I wasn’t thrilled by the fact that she’d stolen my two minutes of attention on a day when I happened to feel better about myself than I had in a long time. However, the more I studied her, I realized a few things. One, this blonde was beyond bleached, and her lips were so unnaturally puffy, you’d have thought she’d been stung in the kisser by a hive of bees. It’s not for me to judge, but why would anyone so young and naturally beautiful opt for such fake augmentation? But the men around me didn’t seem to notice any of this, not surprising, or if they did, they didn’t particularly care.

  32

  From This Moment On

  Even when life hits you like a Mack truck that’s come out of nowhere, there is still a chance that you will survive, and although the road to recovery may be slow, long, and even permanent, this doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the rest of your life and be happy again.

  Time is a healer, and it has moved me along through many difficult moments in my life because of the way it so ingeniously brings change along with it. If you are walking around with deep, open wounds, however, it can actually make things worse, as emotional wounds are like unsolved mysteries, full of unresolved pain and suffering. The more time passes, the longer a wound stays open and the more likely it will never close. In the event it does eventually close, however, it will leave a bigger, more painful scar than had it had the chance to close much sooner. Time is like sleep: once you lose it, you never make up for it. The lesson for me is: when there is a situation that creates suffering, try to resolve it, don’t leave it to fester.

  What I have gained from the generosity of time, though, is acceptance that so much was out of my control. I believe deeply that like all the good that has come to me in my life, I’m meant
to enjoy it and not feel guilty for my fortunes, as I do have to accept the bad without disappointment or regret. I believe negative feelings are toxic, and I’ve learned with the grace of time and the butt-kicking teachings of experience that my energy should be spent avoiding negative thoughts and emotions rather than allowing my need for answers to spin me into obsession and suck all my energy dry. It takes energy to enjoy life, and if we spend it all on figuring out the answers to “why me” and “poor me,” every time we go through a challenge in life, we will never have the energy to run with our children, play with the dog, go sailing, take dance lessons, climb mountains, get a degree, plant a tree, sing a song, or love and nurture our family and friends. I am learning to leave the “goes around” of “what comes around, goes around” to the universe, destiny, the Creator, and all the elements and forces more powerful than me. This frees me up soooo much from a responsibility I thought was mine. I was trapped in the feeling that if someone hurts me, I have to make sure he or she doesn’t just walk away like nothing ever happened and get away with it.

  At the age of six, I was perplexed by the behavior of a creature I knew nothing about, something entirely different from myself: a bumblebee. Cycling along the sidewalk this one time, I saw a cute, furry little ball that I felt guilty for half squashing with the tire of my bike, and I wanted to make it better by taking it in my hand to comfort it, to make sure it was okay. Because I was so unfamiliar with this unusual little being, I didn’t understand it had a stinger. I wasn’t aware of its ability to hurt me or that my compassion toward it could turn to hate in a matter of seconds. This injured bee, which had my complete sympathy at the time, stung me. I was shocked and instantly angry with it for turning on me when all I was trying to do was say “sorry” and be its friend.