Three-Way Mirrors: The Ultimate Reality Check

It started in the Nordstrom dressing room. After shaving off a few pounds, I decided it might be time to try on some jeans. Actually, it was a promise I made to myself. “Hali, you cannot buy new jeans until you lose weight.” So, I thought I was in good shape…literally and figuratively. And as I pulled down my loose fitting skirt (adding to the reality that I was in fact skinnier) and grabbed the faded blues, that’s when I saw it…or them. The backs of my thighs. You see, Nordstrom has these three way mirrors. I used to like three way mirrors. Actually, I used to not even think twice about three way mirrors. They’ve now turned into my biggest nightmare.

“Oh my god.” I said out loud to myself. A mother and daughter were in the dressing room next to me but I didn’t care. I couldn’t breathe, honing in on the ripples that had taken over my thighs and larger than I had expected white ass. I stared at them for another two minutes in disbelief. “How? When? Why? How?” All that was left was “Who?” but I knew who. “Who” was me! How the hell was this “who” me? And more importantly, was there a way I could instantly disappear through the lightly carpeted gray floor of the dressing room?

“You mean, I’ve been walking around like this? In public? In my house with my husband and my cat looking at me? Putting on those gray cotton shorts that I thought gently cupped my butt and strolling around without a care in the world? Flopping around on the sofa with everything hanging out? Bending over, ass waving in the air, to fill my glass of water from our Arrowhead bottle that’s two feet off the ground? I immediately wanted to call my husband and apologize for exposing him to such a disaster.

I began to experience a flash of emotions. Denial was no longer possible. The confusion and frustration and embarrassment left me paralyzed. “But I’ve been exercising! Every day! Squatting and jumping and dancing and grape-vining (so much grape-vining!) and sweating! It wasn’t adding up. Before I spun myself even farther, plummeting at a rapid speed into the doorway of hell, I grabbed my skirt to cover myself up as quickly as possible, told myself not to cry and turned my depression into determination.

Sephora is a place I’ve never ventured into. Probably because I don’t wear makeup or use perfume or any healthy body products whatsoever. Why? I don’t know. But I was on a mission.

“Do you guys sell…cellulite cream?” I actually whispered the word cellulite because I couldn’t believe I was actually having to say it…about myself!

A nice woman wearing all black escorted me over to a corner in the back of the store, which is just where I wanted to be. In the back corner disappearing into the walls of beauty products.

“This is the only product we sell.” She handed me a slender red box. Clarins Body Lift Cellulite Cream.

“Does it work?” I prayed for reassurance.

“I don’t know. I haven’t personally used it myself but you can read the directions.”

Of course you haven’t used it yourself because you have a perfect body and probably won’t ever get ripples on your thighs, you bitch!

With $73.18 deducted from my checking out, I walked out clutching the black and shiny Sephora bag and walked briskly to my car. I wanted no one to look at me. Even though my skirt was long, I started to imagine that the ripples could be seen through the thick cotton waves of fabric. I wanted to be a blur to those around me.

The bag sat untouched in my bathroom for eight days. I knew it was there as I had placed it next to the toilet and glanced at the red tissue paper that was inside. It wasn’t denial. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to use it. It was the haunting suspicion that these types of products are total bullshit and give people the false hope that the ripples will magically disappear.  

I have weight issues. Major, major weight issues. Hitting puberty in the Fall of my first semester of college didn’t help. Neither did the cafeteria located underneath my dorm on Beacon St. in Boston. Never having to worry about gaining weight in the past or even being aware of it, I dragged my tray through the line filling it with greasy potatoes, burgers dripping with cheese, and the last stop…my favorite, the chocolate milk dispenser. Little did I know that the grease and fat and starch coupled with my late blooming body would lead me to gain 25 pounds in 7 weeks.

A series of horrible events ensued. Psychotic roommates who literally bullied me, a crazy ex-boyfriend who my parents had to get a restraining order against following up on his threat that he was going to come to Boston and kidnap me, and my parent’s surprise divorce had manifested into a compulsive eating disorder…now referred to as Binge Eating Disorder (BED). In between classes when the roommates weren’t around, I’d sit on the floor with my plastic bag filled with chocolate and shove them into my mouth as fast as I could while listening to Joni Mitchell and crying. And although it’s not at that point anymore, thank god, the disorder has got me. For 23 years it’s got me.

So the struggle is prominent and deep and feels never-ending. Sometimes I have more control and sometimes I lose it. If someone asks me how much I weigh, my typical response is, it depends on the week. My body shape changes constantly and I’m acutely aware of it. Aware of where the fat will gather, feeling my neck and arms before I’m even fully awake in bed. When it’s bad, I get a real duck look. My ass sticks out and my stomach sticks out in opposite directions. Put a sailor cap on me and I’m a female Donald Duck…Donna Duck.

At the start of the summer I was ¾ Donna Duck and now I’m about .5. But now that I’m working again and my routine has shifted drastically, I fear that I’ll be full Donna within two weeks.

Two days ago I finally got myself to open the box…wrapped in plastic which came with instructions…detailed instructions complete with multiple drawings of a woman, a very skinny woman, who would never ever need to buy this product. A brochure that folded out into a roadmap formation with multiple diagrams. A woman sitting with her back against the wall, her legs out in front of her with knees slightly bent. Below that, sitting with her back against the same wall with her legs pulled towards her torso. And then I read the part that said “apply to legs and buttocks seven times a day for the first week.” Oh god. This was a process. For a low-maintenance girl like me, I couldn’t imagine myself getting into these positions 7 times a day, especially since we don’t have any empty wall space. I folded the map back up and shoved it back in the Sephora bag but I did keep the bottle out.

It’s funny…I was looking for a quick fix…as I tried many times with my bingeing. I don’t think there is one…for either. But knowing me, I’ll keep trying. Looking for shortcuts and easy paths. Ultimately, as with so many aspects of my life, this requires a much deeper investigation and exploration of myself. One that I’ve grown accustomed to and that is all too familiar. Positive change occurs very slowly for me. It always has. Late bloomer…I hate it.