It must have been a summer's day in the suburban California neighborhood. As is typical for such a day, the weather was scorching. The air conditioning units in my house weren't the most effective (they were both the "in the window" kind) and we were all wearily lounging about the living room, trying not to let our arms stick too severely to our bodies.
"We're going to the museum today," Mom announced with a knowing smile and a sparkle in her eye.
We lept to our feet and put on some more clothes (for decency's sake) and piled into a car with a more promising air conditioning unit than that of the house. We relished the cold and, after a blissfully numb car ride, found ourselves at the museum.
I couldn't tell you what museum it was. Couldn't have been a science museum, that's for sure. But, what I can tell you is that whatever that museum was, whoever was the curator and whoever told my mom about it changed my life.
The exhibit we were going to see was filled to the brim with classical art, mainly in the form of sculptures. I don't know why I wasn't embarrassed; I was probably nine or ten and I was standing around a lot of (fake) naked people.
But, the fact of the matter is, I wasn't embarrassed. I was falling in love with them and, consequently, myself.
There were three tall girls at my school. Two of us weren't lanky or gangly and, therefor, we were worthy of the commentary some girls thought was necessary to throw around in fifth grade. I'd been wary about my body, uncomfortable with the way I felt in my own skin because of the way others perceived me: big. I thought that was part of who I was because I'd heard it so frequently. Insecurity was my middle name, but I couldn't help it.
"See, Alison, back then, it was beautiful to be heavier because that meant you were wealthy; you had enough to eat," Mom taught me in passing, striding over to look at another sculpture.
I looked back to the particular statue we'd been observing. I wish I knew her name. She was beautiful. Curly hair pulled back into a loose bun. A powerfully dainty stance (difficult to do, lemme tell ya). A dreamy look in her eyes. An arm in front of her body, not to hide herself, but to hold the useless sheer cloth she'd been given.
She was a normal, healthy, beautiful woman.
Her hips weren't tiny. Her thighs weren't skinny rods. Her waist wasn't without creases. Her arms weren't chiseled.
She was beautiful.
And she was me.
And if she was me, and someone had sculpted her frame into granite, why wouldn't someone want to do the same with mine?
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