I have a certain relationship with food.

It’s quite an on-again, off-again thing. A few weeks ago we were on pretty good terms; I started the day with some Greek yogurt and raw almonds, went to the gym and worked out until sweat dripped from my hair and ran in rivulets down my back, then came home to a shower and a refreshing spinach salad. Good, right? The thing is, all of this eating well is tied to my emotional well-being as much as when I buy a box of Berry Berry Krispy Kremes and eat them alone in my car.

Claudia at prom | Pic by Stephanie Stern

I have been trying to lose weight since I was thirteen years old, even though I wasn’t actually overweight until I was almost thirty. Where did I get the idea, then? The teenaged girl’s mind is a terrifying place sometimes, paralyzed by fears of all kinds – of embarrassment, shame, humiliation, unlovable-ness – and information of all kinds – large breasts are good, excess flesh anywhere else is bad, only your best friend can tell you if you bled on the back of your skirt, the girls’ bathroom on the 2^nd floor has no doors on the stalls and a window to the roof where the boys sometimes look in, toothpaste on your zit overnight makes it go away, and so on. Picture being asked, in an English accent, “Did you know you have great boil on your face?” I hadn’t even gotten to body hair yet.

Add to the mix a weight-obsessed Jewish family, both American and British. We’d drive out to Westchester in a rented car to visit relatives, and as soon as we opened the Pinto’s doors, they’d be standing in the driveway, my aunts and uncles, assessing each of us: “Oh, you’ve lost a bit of weight, haven’t you?” or “Looks like you put a few back on, doesn’t it, dear?” Once, my grandmother, who pinched my backside regularly, saying, “Where’d you get such a tuchus?” offered my mother $1,000 to lose weight. Nice, right? My father was so consumed by body image that despite grave illness, he enjoyed the slenderness that cancer provided and gave my husband all his “fat” shirts. We would have been offended, but they were beautifully made, expensive shirts. In addition to good taste, Dad had a very dark sense of humor, and he suggested that his headstone read “Thin at last.” Then he laughed. Hard. It’s a formula for disaster.

I am on my fourth – no, I think it’s my fifth – Weight Watchers membership. I have absolute faith in that program, which is really just about eating healthfully, but very little in myself. I have done very well on it in the past, and I remember the confidence I had when I first met my husband in 1998. I was slim, strong, and comfortable in my body. So I know what I’m aiming for; it’s the getting there that poses a problem. There are just so many bumps in the road. If you are like my super-skinny sister-in-law, you see food as fuel, and take little pleasure in it, eating to stay alive, and occasionally mentioning this philosophy to others, as if to challenge our love for you. If you are like my husband, you know where to get good grub from East coast to West, and you give the food a small round of applause as it is set in front of you at the restaurant. I like to cook. Even more than that, I like to eat. I think about what we’ll have for dinner every morning as I plan my day. I invite people over so I can make big meals to share. Celebrations are about eating. Consolations are about eating. And what goes better with those than a nice bottle of wine or two?

Claudia with her family | Pic by Stephanie Stern

I have so many things to tell you – about watching The Biggest Loser on my living room floor while pigging out on Chinese food, Dad’s “Half” Diet, the occasional jerk at the gym, painful undergarments for special occasions (now you’re curious, aren’t you?), getting to level three on the elliptical, buying smaller jeans at the consignment store, seeing pictures of myself I don’t recognize, and watching my husband find a Reese’s peanut butter cup wrapper in my glove compartment. A complicated mix of success and failure colors my notions of self-worth, and it’s clear to me from interviews with other women that I am not alone in my struggle to be okay with who I am and what I look like. Those of us who call ourselves feminists (or less irritating descriptors for the same idea) object to the standards set for us and by us even as we kill ourselves trying to comply. As I work toward a healthier lifestyle, I am trying to figure out if it’s possible to be comfortable in my skin even if I don’t reach some numerical goal, and why we all (not just women) spend so much time thinking we’re not good enough.

Check back weekly for continued installments of Claudia’s “Flesh in the City” series.

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