Mirror, Mirror Off the Wall

by Kjerstin Gruys

  Early on Sunday morning, Michael and I drove to the local examination site. Four portable trailers had been set up on a land plot in downtown San Francisco, just a few blocks from About-Face. Once we arrived and showed our IDs, we had to change into medical scrubs before being guided through the maze of trailers, which were set up with dozens of stations for medical tests.

  In addition to collecting the usual boring data on our height, weight, body temperature, and blood pressure, we also had our hearing tested, our grip strength tested, and we reported on twenty-four hours’ worth of food intake (down to every tablespoon of buffet food we’d sampled at Whole Foods the night before), as well as numerous blood tests. I received a full body scan and had various odd body measurements taken, such as the length between my shoulder socket and my elbow. I peed in a cup, spat in a vial, and swabbed my privates for a self-administered STD test. Fun stuff, right?

  Well, I thought so, too, until the very end when I was handed a printout called the “Preliminary Report of Findings.”

  Now, this preliminary report didn’t include everything I’d been tested for that day, but it did list all of the results that could be ascertained within hours. I learned that my blood pressure and heart rate were within the normal range, my oral health was deemed adequate, my hearing was also normal, my muscle strength was excellent (!), and all of the measures taken in my “Complete Blood Count” were within the normal-to-excellent range. In other words, I’d just received a clean bill of health. Almost.

  My “body measurements” (i.e., BMI and waist circumference) were flagged as a concern. With my weight of 159.8 pounds and height of five feet, five inches, my Body Mass Index (BMI) came in at 26.5, so I was labeled “overweight” by current medical standards (though I knew from my research that this BMI would have been considered “normal weight” just a few years before). But there was more: My waist circumference was measured at thirty-six inches, one inch above the recommended maximum. (Apparently they hadn’t followed my tip about measuring my waist immediately below my breasts!) Because of these two measurements, the report warned me that I had an increased risk of health problems such as type 2 diabetes, high blood pressure, and cardiovascular disease.

  Okay, so those are the facts of the story. Here are the feelings: It completely sucked. It threw me into a tailspin.

  Given my background, that seemed likely. I’d embarked on a serious (and very public) self-acceptance project in which I hadn’t seen myself in the mirror in months, and I’d conquered an eating disorder almost a decade prior. Add to this the fact that I knew that I was at a healthy weight for my body, and—here’s the kicker—I was also intimately familiar with recent research published by the CDC (yes, the exact same CDC running this study!) that found that the “overweight” BMI category actually had the lowest mortality rates (yes, that means lower mortality rates than the so-called “normal” BMI category). In fact, on the basis of the CDC data, my BMI of 26.5 was basically at the sweetest sweet spot for long-term health. Knowing all of this stuff, I should have been in a pretty good position to not care too much about the warning I received from NHANES.

  So what happened? I read the report and “felt fat.” (Yes, I know that “fat is not a feeling,” but y’all know what I’m talking about!) Suddenly my normal blood pressure was replaced by a warning that my thirty-six-inch waist was putting me at risk for high blood pressure, and my excellent grip strength didn’t feel so excellent anymore. Despite everything, my first thought was, I need to lose some weight. How had I come so far, only to find myself right back at the beginning?

  • • •

  I STRUGGLED FOR SEVERAL DAYS TO BANISH URGES TO GO ON A crash diet.

  Just ten pounds! I thought to myself. That’s all I’d need to lose to get into the “normal” BMI category! If I can just get back to my usual 155, and then lose another five, I’ll be fine!

  Despite all of the progress I’d made in the past year, and despite the sense of calm that had washed over me since the wedding, it was hard for me to deal with the fact that I’d gained some weight.

  The fact that I’d gained a few pounds wasn’t even a complete surprise. My two-week honeymoon had been a bit of a free-for-all of amazing food and drinks. Other than a few hikes, my exercise routine had also taken a two-week vacation. I’d been okay with this, wanting to relax and enjoy our vacation without stressing out about food or exercise. I knew it was likely that I would put on a few pounds, so I’d intentionally not stepped on a scale in the weeks following our return to normal life. I wanted to give my body time to sort itself out through my focus on healthy habits, imagining that it would settle back to my usual weight. Obviously it wasn’t quite there yet.

  I’d faced panic-inducing episodes of weight gain before, and I knew I was at risk of diving into a crash diet. People recovering from eating disorders often talk about being triggered by certain events or situations. Being tsk-tsked by the NHANES report was a trigger for me. All of my people-pleasing urges rushed in, as I imagined rapidly losing the weight and earning an A+ on my next health exam. I don’t fail tests, I thought to myself. I want a retest. Next week. Same place, same time! It was bad.

  I knew from past experience that, unless I wanted to end up in the hospital with kidney stones, I would have to “fake it ’til I made it” by following HAES principles. HAES helped me the most at times when I feared that my body was out of control. Not trusting my body was always the first step down the wrong path. So, on Monday, the day after I’d received my NHANES report, I wrote a blog post about my struggles and asked for support being patient with my body, to trust that as long as I treated it well it would settle into a healthy place. Thanks to my prior research on resolutions, I knew that putting this goal into writing would make it a pact, and that sharing my plans with other people would provide social support for the attempt.

  • • •

  IT TOOK ME TWO FULL WEEKS OF INTENTIONAL PATIENCE, MODERATE exercise, and careful non-dieting before I started to feel better, before my confidence and calmness returned. I didn’t lose any weight, but that was okay. Weight loss has never been part of HAES, and besides, the NHANES report had essentially noted that I was in good health. Most important, I allowed myself to enjoy Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday. I’ve heard people claim that “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” I hate this phrase, and disagree completely. I’ve had both, and Thanksgiving tastes way better than skinny feels. I promise.

  Did I eat a lot on Thanksgiving? Oh yes, indeed; having the flexibility to enjoy special food on special occasions (without guilt) is an important element of normal eating habits!

  My reaction to the NHANES report had been a bit like the moment I’d realized that my first wedding dress was too tight; in both cases, a voice inside my head had sprung out of hiding to tell me that I ought to lose weight. It wasn’t my rational voice, and it certainly wasn’t the voice of my three-year-old self; it was my dormant anorexic voice. I had to accept that it might always be there.

  People say things like “Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic.” I think that eating disorders are similar. Even if a person “recovers,” he or she has to recommit to recovery time and time again as our culture and media deliver onslaught after onslaught of unhealthy messages and beauty standards. I reminded myself that feeling like an activist would be much more empowering than feeling like a victim. Be a role model. I needed to turn my fear into anger and my body shame into righteous outrage.

  Even in my post about needing support for body image struggles, I’d refrained from sharing my experience with NHANES with my blog readers because I was ashamed to admit my weight gain. (I kept thinking of how horrified Michael’s mom might be if I announced to the world that I was “overweight.”) But I decided that sharing my weight and measurements, and struggles with being “diagnosed” as overweight, might help other women feel braver, too. I wrote out every last bit of the story, including my height,
my weight, my BMI, my waist circumference, and how ashamed and panicked I’d felt when I read the report I’d been given. I promised to be brave and unapologetic about my unique body. It was a major “you go girl!” moment.

  • • •

  OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL WEEKS, LIFE GOT CALM AND HAPPY again. I developed a solid routine for regularly working on my dissertation. I dove into evaluation data analysis for About-Face, and also gave a presentation about my research findings to their board of directors. I was living a purposeful life, and it felt nice. The holiday spirit seemed alive and well in San Francisco, and Michael and I were excited to make plans for our yearly St. Lucia’s Day brunch.

  St. Lucia’s Day is a traditional Scandinavian holiday. When I was growing up, my family invited our friends and neighbors to our home to celebrate the occasion over a potluck brunch. Each year, a little girl was chosen to be St. Lucia. She would dress in a white gown with a red sash and wear a wreath of candles in her hair as she welcomed the guests for brunch. Traditionally, the eldest daughter in the household would carry out these St. Lucia duties, but I’d grown tired of picking candle wax out of my hair post-brunch, so we began to pass the tradition along to a different neighborhood girl each year. Of course, as soon as it was no longer her daughters’ hair, my mom ordered a wreath decked out with battery-operated fake candles. As a teenager I rolled my eyes at my family’s St. Lucia’s Day brunch tradition, but as soon as I no longer lived at home with my parents, I’d begun to miss it.

  This year, Michael and I would be cohosting our first St. Lucia’s Day brunch in San Francisco. I’d planned out the menu (mostly foods from Ikea!), and we’d invited all of our friends. The party would be held on the morning of December 18, and we were flying to Louisville for Christmas two days later. After spending Christmas Eve in Louisville, we would drive to St. Louis to spend Christmas Day with my family.

  Everything was shaping up to be a perfect holiday season.

  And then I ruined my hair.

  The hair saga started with boredom. In those weeks before Christmas, I’d begun to feel that itch to mess with my hair, the urge to do something different. For all of my adult life I’ve been searching for that perfect haircut and color combination that perfectly expresses me. Alas, some days I feel retro punk and androgynous, while other days I like to channel classic (über)femininity. I am alternatively a student and a teacher, a reader and a writer, a fashionista and a stays-in-her-PJs-all-day slouch, a glamazon bombshell and a Makeup-Free-Mondays all-natural kinda gal. My multiple personae are easy enough to accomplish with a varied wardrobe, but not so much with my hair.

  On that Tuesday before our St. Lucia’s Day brunch, as I imagined what I might like to look like for the upcoming holiday season, I decided that I’d been feeling too natural, too slouchy, and not sufficiently glamorous or edgy. I wanted to show up at my in-laws’ home looking chic and modern. My solution? I decided I ought to put Gwyneth Paltrow’s hair on my head.

  It didn’t even seem all that risky. My hair is naturally light-ish blond and pin-straight, so to achieve Gwyneth Paltrow’s sleek platinum locks, I just needed my hair to be lighter. We were on a tight budget, but no worries; that’s what Walgreens is for! (Gwyneth obviously colors her own hair from seven-dollar boxed dye, too, right?) I left the drugstore with two boxes of “Very Light Beige Blonde.”

  In hindsight it’s obvious, of course, that I may have been feeling more than a bit overconfident. I thought, Hey, this should be easy. It’s not like I was giving myself highlights, right? All I had to do was mix the dye, cover my hair with it, set a timer, and then wash it out when the timer went off. Mirrors would be wholly unnecessary.

  Once home, I followed the directions exactly, sans mirrors. Once the timer went off, I washed the dye out, dried my hair, and then eagerly peered at the ends (which I could see without mirrors). It looked fantastic! Pale buttery blond, just like the hair color I’d had as a little kid. Perfect!

  Then I showed Michael. Well, to be more specific, I accosted him in our TV room, flipping my (supposedly) Gwyneth Paltrow–esque hair and posing for imaginary paparazzi.

  “Ta-da! Surprise! What do you think?”

  “Whoa! Wow, it looks cool!” Michael paused. “I mean, it’s what you meant to do, right? It’s kind of . . . bright.”

  “Yeah, well, I wanted to lighten it.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s definitely lighter. Were you going for a kind of a punk thing?”

  My heart sank. Punk? Uh-oh. And Michael is color-blind, so if he was seeing a problem, there was definitely a problem.

  “Okay, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Well, it’s kind of different colors. It’s really yellow near your face.” Michael can see yellow. Gulp.

  After more quizzing, I learned from him that the hair near my scalp was bright yellow, “like, neon.” This wasn’t predictable, but it was explainable: A while back I’d gotten highlights for the wedding, and my hair had grown since then. The highlighted parts, the ends that I could see, were perfect, but my roots were apparently neon yellow.

  You’d think that at this point I’d wave a neon yellow flag of defeat and consult the experts, but I was too cheap for that.

  Instead I thought, Hmmm . . . Maybe I didn’t leave the dye on long enough to lighten my roots! That’s it!

  So I did what any sensible and extremely cheap woman would do: I brought out that second box of hair dye and colored my hair again.

  Unsurprisingly, per Michael, my hair looked even worse after round two. Shit.

  I finally waved that neon yellow flag of defeat. It was time to seek help from a pro, and I needed to do it before we went to Louisville.

  I told Michael that I wanted to get my hair fixed at a salon, but he suggested that I wait until we were back in the Midwest for Christmas since it would be less expensive. “You’ve already spent twenty dollars messing it up. We can’t afford for you to pay another fifty dollars, or whatever it would cost, to have it fixed here.”

  “Fifty dollars? Try two hundred!” I shot back. Immediately regretting this uncontrollable urge to correct people. This was not in my best interest.

  The whole reason I’d bothered to color my hair in the first place was because I’d wanted to look chic and glamorous for my mother-in-law. I knew that she read my blog and that she’d have read that I’d gained weight. I felt embarrassed about this. I kept remembering that night when she’d told me she was proud of me for deciding to lose weight. Obviously I hadn’t. I was scared that she would disapprove of or be embarrassed by me. I thought she’d always be disappointed that her perfect son had married the chubby girl. I didn’t think I could explain this to Michael. All I knew was that I had to get my hair fixed before we left.

  “What!?! You’ve got to be kidding. Two hundred dollars? Jesus, that’s completely ridiculous,” he responded.

  I began to panic, my voice rising. “Michael, I HAVE TO get this fixed right away. I can’t go walking around town with neon hair. I’ll look like a crazy woman!” I pleaded.

  “Yeah, well, maybe that would give people a warning. If you think it’s okay to pay two hundred dollars on your hair, you are crazy!” he said, voice rising to meet mine. He continued, landing a blow where it would hurt the most. “You don’t even have a job! I’m the only one with a paycheck. Maybe if you were making some money, too, we’d have enough in our budget for something like this. . . .”

  I was so furious and hurt that I began to cry. I yelled back, “You know I applied for scholarships and didn’t get any! Money is tight everywhere, including at school. It’s not my fault that we’re in a fucking recession.” I glared at him. I was pissed off.

  And I wasn’t finished.

  “Oh, and it’s not like I’m sitting around watching TV all day; I’m working my ass off to finish my dissertation! What do you want me to do, anyway? Quit school? Ask you for permission every time I
want to buy something? I’m not some traditional housewife begging for pin money.”

  “Oh for crying out loud!” Michael retorted. “Don’t pull that sexism crap on me. It’s not fair.”

  “You’re damn right it’s not fair!” I shouted back. “I’m in the midst of a crisis and you’re being a jerk!” With that, I stomped out of the room and slammed the door. Of course, in our small apartment I had nowhere to go to be alone except for my bathroom.

  I retreated there to sulk and mutter snappy retorts to myself. I glared at my covered mirror and wished I had a folding chair to crash into it. Seven years of bad luck? Whatever. Bring it on. I was pissed.

  After a few minutes, Michael knocked on the door. When I didn’t answer, he spoke through it.

  “Look, I’m sorry I brought up all of that money stuff. I’ve just been really anxious about making ends meet on my fellowship salary.” He sounded apologetic.

  “Okay, I’m sorry I freaked out at you,” I said back. “I just don’t think I can handle waiting a few weeks to fix my hair.”

  I heard him sigh, and after a long pause, he told me it would be okay. “I don’t understand why this is such a big deal, but I know you’re really freaked out. Maybe it’s the no-mirrors thing. Go ahead and make your appointment. We’ll figure it out.”

  I knew that this was a fight without a real winner; the issues laid bare would come up again. Nevertheless, I was relieved.

  • • •

  THE NEXT DAY, AFTER WORKING FROM HOME TO AVOID SHOWING my hair-oops to the world, I arrived at the nearest hair salon wearing a fuzzy pink beret that I hoped looked casually chic and not at all like I was hiding a bad dye job. I sat down in the waiting area and flipped through a magazine, twirling a strand of hair around my fingers. Minutes later I met my new stylist/savior, Nikki, an energetic curly-haired brunette who immediately put me at ease. Apparently she’d seen worse (whew!), and she told me that I was actually lucky: Since my hair was so light, she wouldn’t have to bleach out any dye before darkening it back to my natural color.