The weekend before the move to Atlanta, I attended the Writers’ League of Texas’ Agents and Editors Conference. This was set to be a momentous event. I’d registered months in advance with the intention of having my novel manuscript ready to query (aka send to literary agents with the intention of enticing someone to represent me and my work to publishers). I even had a 10-minute time slot with a real-life literary agent where I could pitch my work.
And while I had a fruitful meeting with the agent, connected with some lovely fellow writers and learned a lot during the panel sessions, the best part of the entire conference occurred when I was walking to get dinner after the second day ended and two things happened within minutes of one another: A man in a red pickup stopped to tell me how pretty my dress was and then another gentleman eye fucked me all the way across the intersection, neither of us dropping our gaze for a second.
I’m being only mildly facetious here. It’s been a long time since someone has eye fucked me in a crosswalk. Hell, it’s been a minute since I’ve been ogled at all, and I’m telling you, that’s an outright travesty. This body has done and gone through a lot in the past several years. It has changed from waif-like during the months I spent in hot-and-humid Thailand to expansive during pregnancy, and as I’ve shared previously, the postpartum period nearly killed me. My connection to my body has been offline for a minute, and by golly, I want it back.
But I had to feel it for myself. I knew this completely and yet, it felt somewhat impossible to get there. It’s hard to see yourself trying to wear the same clothes, only to find they don’t quite fit like they used to. It’s challenging to discover those J Crew V-neck tees you used to love now hug your low belly in all the wrong ways. It’s disheartening to look at an adorable photo of your child holding your hand and notice you look…frumpy. That last one in particular hit me right in the ego.
The one thing that helped me to reframe the relationship to my body was that mushroom trip I took in Tucson, AZ with my two beautiful friends. After the magic began to fade and reality took to settling back in, I went to take a shower. In this bathroom, the long mirror flanked the glass shower doors, allowing me to view my body in full length as I let the water flow over me. That’s when it hit me: I’d spent my whole life trying to look like Kate Moss or Twiggy or some other super-skinny beauty icon, but in my post-baby body I had inadvertently become Venus in “The Birth of Venus.” A Venus, it must be said, that is absolutely gorgeous in her own right and on her own terms.
And just like the Venus, my once-hard edges had softened. My toned belly rounded, and my still lovely breasts remain perky albeit in a slightly lower position on my chest. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” I reminded myself in the shower. “You’re an idiot not to see that.” I have to remind myself of this constantly. I try to be kinder about it, too, but the fact remains. I was wishing to relive a time in my body that is no longer available to me. This body is older and wiser, it’s fuller but equally vibrant. This body is delightfully eye fuckable and regular fuckable, too. It looks different than it used to, but it gives more pleasure than it ever did before.
Now, I know that some of you might have bristled at the way I’ve seemingly decided my body was only worthy of such love and wonder in the aftermath of validation from the male gaze. That’s fair, although I’d argue there’s more to it than that. I won’t deny that there’s certainly a part of me impacted by the patriarchy, the societal focus on skinny as superior, the outside acceptance of my body as a desirable sexual object. It’s sometimes a big part of how I talk to myself. I have a lot to unlearn.
I recently read something on Substack about how women relate to their bodies when men are no longer interested in looking at them, and I must tell you that I just always assumed that men would be eye fucking my body until the day I died. I believed (and kind of continue to believe) that my 70-year-old flesh suit will still be wildly exciting to the octogenarian crowd, even if it’s not as Viagra-worthy as the nubile twenty-something. There’s always going to be some dude with an “older women” fetish that will be attracted to me, right? In a world of foot fascinations and dungeon curiosities, there’s got to be someone sporting a “granny kink.” Probably more than one someone, honestly.
But that’s only half the story. Yes, I like male attention on my body. I like feeling sexy and strong and attractive and mesmerizing, and seeing dudes check me out is a part of that feeling for me. More importantly, however, I’m also learning how to embrace self-body-love. I spend a lot of time telling my reflection how fucking gorgeous she is. How seductively and elegantly she moves through the world. How she can turn herself on completely without assistance. How smooth and perfect she feels in between the sheets after dark when the clothes have been shed and sleep is on the verge of taking her over.
So, am I still going to be delighted when I’m navigating the airport solo, pushing a stroller in one hand and gliding a roller bag with the other, in a stiped J Crew shirt dress and dudes everywhere are looking me up and down? Yes! I’m fucking supermom, guys, are you seeing this shit? I’m taken as hell, but I still got it. I’m still hot!
But I’m also going to be pleased by how I feel when I move through a vinyasa class for the first time in many moons and realize that my physical form still moves with the grace of a dancer through sun salutations. That I have strong balance in one-legged poses. That I am reconstructing a connection to myself that once felt broken beyond repair. I am going to be proud of myself, even if my mentality around body confidence and worthiness is not perfect. I’m going to continue working on it (and on myself) for my daughter, too.
That’s perhaps the hardest part of raising a little girl in this world. I don’t want to pass on my food weirdness, my mean self-talk, my discomfort with my belly. I want her to be free of my disordered eating, my endless guilt about whether I should have had the donut, my morality about blueberries being somehow superior to peanut butter cups, my internalized fatphobia. It’s exhausting to think so much about our bodies.
I hope to give my daughter the gift of body freedom, and that’s why I’m protective about what people say about their bodies or her body in her presence. That’s why I let her lift my shirt and look at my belly, even when I’d rather hide. It’s also why I don’t disparage my own body when she’s around.
I remember my dad making an off-hand remark about my stomach sticking out when I was about 10, and I’ve mostly battled my negative feelings about my low belly ever since. I’m attempting to save my daughter from that anxiety. I refuse to let some family member or, God forbid, a complete stranger make a throwaway comment about the Bean that might hurt her self-confidence or foster a poor self-image. She shouldn’t have to inherit anyone else’s garbage mentality about the worthiness of their body, least of all my own.
I clearly do not have all the answer about how to divorce my excitement about being fuckable to men everywhere from how I feel about the prettiness of my own body. For now, I’m satisfied that I’ve stopped actively hating my “mom bod”—a term I despise for its unfavorable connotation, but one I acknowledge as being an accurate representation of me. I am, after all, a mom with a body.
But I’m more than that, too. When the baby is with dad and I’m riding a post-pitch-day high, I’m also a woman in the world who sometimes clothes herself in a dress that can literally stop traffic. And for now, I wouldn’t want it any other way.
With pleasure,
Yes, Misstrix
P.S. Are you loving this newsletter? If so, I’d love for you to spread the word. You can share using the link below, subscribe (if you haven’t already) using the link below that, and if you’re feeling generous, you might consider upgrading your subscription to a paid one. Regardless, thank you for being here. This newsletter wouldn’t be the same without you…well, actually, it might be the same, but it’s certainly better with you around ;)