I have tried to erase the filters that have their source in the views of others when I behold myself. Now, I like myself more and more and feel less apologetic about my body’s flaws and eccentricities
A few days ago, at the community swimming pool, I thought about how I didn’t seem to care that my legs were unwaxed, or whether the two-piece bikini I was wearing flattered my body or not. Representation pic
I had originally intended to steer this week’s column towards my experience of viewing Queen Charlotte on Netflix. I’d finally gotten around to committing to the mini-series. I had no expectations and the first two episodes felt really slow, filled with what felt like dead time, but I realised later, this was perhaps intentional. The viewer needed to fully empathise with the new queen’s predicament of having to ‘wait’ for some elusive event over which she had little control. I suppose that watching the series made me reflect on the violence of waiting and the different degrees to which we have to contend with it based on the extent of the oppressiveness of the worlds we inhabit. Towards the final episode, I was struck by how the show managed to pitch this particular prequel, of sorts, as a love story between a king and queen but was more intentionally about female friendship as a salve against loneliness and alienation and a dynamic against which one could more fully dwell on one’s personhood. Towards the end, I was teary-eyed for this reason.
Yesterday, however, I saw a post on Instagram that deigned to offer parenting advice. I am so wary of these because it is the result of some algorithm that is now specific to my feed. Most of the advice comes from white women and demands a criticality that few mothers are able to offer during moments of fragility. Also, as a mother, I often rely on social media for a break from parenting, so it is annoying when you begin to be inundated with posts concerning the things you want, momentarily, to escape. Still, three simple words flashed in the centre of the post. ‘Don’t postpone joy’. And it really spoke to me, because I am on the cusp of turning 38 and have been thinking a lot about how this one feels different from all the others I’ve had.
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I was possibly on the bus back from the city of Bozen. It was pouring outside. I was supposed to meet a photographer who was commissioned to make a portrait of me. I’d woken up bright and early and draped my sari such that the pallu resembled a cape. I chose a burnt ochre-gold because I liked how it framed my skin. I wore the gold necklace my mother had gifted me sometime in my 20s. I’m always nervous about being photographed, because cameras rarely ever are able to capture my complexion and how it absorbs and radiates light. Usually, I am left with photographs that whiten me or reflect a white light that doesn’t do justice to my skin tone. However, when the photographer offered me a glimpse of his Hasselblad screen, I found I didn’t hate how I look. I wondered, then, if I was finally beginning to see myself more generously. I remember telling my therapist once about how I felt I had this ability to really perceive and grasp the beauty of the people around me. I told her that if I spent enough time with someone, I could enlist exactly what made them beautiful. Not in a superficial way. I could articulate the confluence between their physical expressions, their bodily features and the quirks that make their personality. She then asked what prevented me from doing the same for myself. I told her, at the time, that it was only when I saw myself in my best friend’s mirror that I genuinely liked how I looked. I wasn’t sure if it was the light or the mirror itself. But I concluded, after that session, that it had to do with revelling in the way she saw me, in her gaze. I decided, then, that I wanted to work hard to unravel from my perception of myself all the filters that had their source in other people’s perception of me. I wanted to begin a process of beholding myself that was purified of these excesses, these
unnecessary distractions.
Every year, I would use my birthday to plan a life ‘after’. More often than not, I would try to lose weight so that I could ‘better’ my appearance. I thought that if I looked better, my life would change. In retrospect, I see how misogynistic and fatphobic this internalised conditioning was. That is what I think I have managed to undo, all these years later. A few days ago, at the community swimming pool, I thought about how I didn’t seem to care that my legs were unwaxed, or whether the two-piece bikini I was wearing flattered my body or not. I felt so much love for what I call my ‘muchness’, the little folds of my belly, the untoned arms. I exercise regularly, but in order to be fit and strong, not to lose weight and appear thin. I can walk long distances, but I am also so much better at knowing when to rest my body. I abuse it less. I no longer postpone joy, think of it as something I must deserve or earn. Next week, when the baker finally returns from his vacation, I look forward to eating my two croissants with butter every morning. I think what’s changed is that I like myself more and more and feel less apologetic about its flaws and eccentricities. It’s a great place to be in as one approaches the 40s. I don’t know if there’s anything better to aspire to than this cradling of one’s inner child, this tender loving of one’s fleshy excesses.
Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.
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