I LIKE ME!

don't you?

Welcome to LOL. A reader-supported publication. Each week, I feature a children’s book, a creative essay, and fun edits to inspire the art of life.

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I LIKE ME!

by Nancy Carlson

She likes herself. She really likes herself. Good for her.

Clearly not an auto-biography.

“Nancy is the author and illustrator of over 60 picture books. Nancy graduated from The Minneapolis College of Art and Design with a degree in printmaking. When she is not drawing or writing, you can find her up in northern Minnesota hiking with her family.”

Yeah, you look like you like hiking and powerbars, Nancy.

The feet turned inward suggests some internal shame, but clearly not about your waist size.

MOTHERHOOD

by I Like Me!

and good for you, Nancy Carlson

(rolls eyes)

When I saw the cover of this book at our local Goodwill, it immediately repulsed me.

First of all, it’s a book about a literal pig, so I’m not sure what you’re saying here, but yes, Nancy, I’ve put on a few pounds since having my children, and yes, Nancy, I like myself more than I ever have and yes, Nancy, I am also blood-suckingly jealous of women who get to enjoy their motherhood wearing cool clothes and free of the fat shaming, distorted body, freak-show that is my everyday existence.

However,

when I was thin, I hated my body, and now, I just don’t like my body very much.

That’s better, right?

…

One of the last poignant conversations I had with my bff from my 20s — she was talking shit about an ex who she bumped into — and to explain how pathetic his domestic life with his wife and the new baby in the suburbs was she yucked, “he’s overweight.”

And for some reason—I guess because I knew the friendship was ending—I said, “Yeah, but do you think he’s happy?”

So she ick-ed, “How could he be happy if he looks like that?”

Unrelated, I’m sure, but our friendship didn’t withstand my weight gain.

…

An ex was constantly spewing about his mother.

“she gave up,” he spit.

This was his way of describing that his mother had recently married a loving man, moved from his industrial childhood apartment in the city to a modern house in the suburbs, and gained 20 lbs.

…

When I went to physical therapy 6 weeks after the birth of my second daughter, the therapist hummed to herself.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just that your organs are all on one side. So interesting.”

Before children, I imagined I’d be starring in a blockbuster like The 5th Element or Men in Black — playing a dynamic alien with a universe to save and great one-liners. Laying on this metal table, with my guts to the wrong side, hiccuping about cesareans wasn’t what I had in mind.

…

Or the time when I got my IUD put in (huge mistake!), and the midwife couldn’t find my uterus. That’s right. My uterus was missing, and for some reason, she told me!

…

I texted a confidant about my recent body image issues. She’s also a recovering anorexic with 3 kids. I wanted to know what her thoughts were —

“I got a tummy tuck.”

Great.

…

I used to be able to fit in small spaces. Bring my knees to my chest. Do tricky things like climb from the passengers seat of the car to the back while the car was in motion. Now it’s hard to get up and down off the floor.

I’ve been overweight for years now, but I still bump into things because my spacial relationship has changed so much. Sometimes, I forget what I look like until i see a picture.

Man, I used to move so fast.

But I had no energy. My stomach was always sick. I ate activated charcoal for breakfast and my idea of “healthy” was fitting into a certain pair of jeans which shall not be named.

I still have them. I don’t know what for.

The problem is that I can’t seem to wear jeans.

…

On eBay, a few months ago, I found THE dress for my daughter’s Valentine's themed 1st birthday.

A picture-perfect Vivetta in the largest size 44 and deep-discounted OMFG score!

I even ordered the kid's classic temporary tattoos to go in the party favors, and I was PUMPED.

I couldn’t get it on my body when it showed up — let alone zipped up.

Fail.

You’d think I’d measure myself before buying anything else, but instead,

…

At 12:55 am, a week before the party, I was trolling the internet to find no-fail outfit inspiration. I skipped through image after image that made me feel nothing but envy. Why can’t I be a super cool and happy and hot mom?

Wait!

This! This! I can do this!

Seems like a reasonable ensemble to me! Covers my tummy and everything. It’s effortless but stylish. Cool and not self-serious. Comfortable. Classic and fresh! It’s great.

So, armed with the above image from a newsletter called something like “outfits real moms are really wearing” or something

I hunted down the exact shade of Saint James top — then I reminisced about a navy version of the same shirt that I wore for years in an XS. It’s lovingly tucked away in storage with the jeans that will not be named for whenever I’m able to fit in it.

But until then, size L unisex it is!

Kismet.

Then, I realized the happy, healthy-weight mom pictured above is wearing a Cecilie Bahnsen skirt, which I have no business purchasing but (!) I can get a similar shade and cut (with a bit more drama) in this super sale only the largest size remaining US 12 UK 16 Molly Goddard — I love!

How overweight could I possibly be that I can’t pull this off? Ha!

.

Turns out, very.

The skirt wouldn’t shut around my “waist,” and when I held it together and considered pinning it just to prove to myself I could, I realized I looked just like

a pig.

A big pink and poofy pig. Like Miss Piggy but weirder.

Like a pig who no one wants around.

Like a pig who wants everyone to go home.

and I ask you,

does anyone want to look like a pig at their daughter’s 1st birthday?

No!

There’s an unspoken, overt competition to look GREAT at your daughter’s 1st birthday. It’s been a fucking year! Get it together! OINK!

I threw the skirt. It’s still on the floor of my closet. It’s a pink pig in a sad ball. I have no intention of picking it up. It was final fucking sale.

I have no intention of measuring myself, either. I don’t want to know why I can’t fit in the largest size a designer makes.

Screw you, me.

…

Some day I will get my shit together whatever getting my shit together means.

or I’ll get a tummy tuck, or am I supposed to have vomiting diarrhea and never eat again like everyone I know on Ozempic? I already spent half my life starving, and I like myself now, so why do I have to suffer?

What is healthy? How many nights a week should anyone have dessert?

What is a carb?!?!?!

Why isn’t “I like me” featuring a skinny fucking DEER ??

…

In 2006/7 i stayed here for a while because my life had gotten so out of control I couldn’t function on my own.

I liked it there. Made some friends. Learned about Pia Mellody. Wondered why they don’t teach her in public schools. Even stopped wanting to punish my body for a heartbeat.

The desert is so harsh that hurting me felt unnecessary. Plus, the counselors make you count how many almonds you eat, so I didn’t have a choice.

I do remember feeling like I was living in a real home for the first time. With meals and a schedule. I was just about 20.

But I left “against medical advice.” The doctors didn’t think i was ready to return to society. They were right. I wasn’t.

A few years ago, I wrote a TV pilot based on my experience spending Thanksgiving in an eating disorder clinic. It’s a pretty great episode of a show that could be interesting or helpful. No one will ever see it, but I watch it in my mind.

Anyway, maybe I don’t need to be so harsh with me about my weight. Maybe.

…

Sometimes, I’m confused about my state of mind as I joyfully flop my heavy body after my children.

My weight fluctuates based on any number of factors including my cycle, rate of nursing, what kind of food I eat, and how much exercise I get. Things I can, for the most part, control.

Still, for some reason it feels like 10 pounds in either direction happens against my will and without warning.

But it’s hard not to be cruel to myself when I eat in public.

Sometimes, when I’m at a party or at a picnic I refuse food because I think everyone is rolling their eyes watching me make my own lumpy situation worse.

So, my absolute favorite place to eat is at my own beautiful dinner table, surrounded by my incredibly adorable children, my handsome husband, and my wild, wonderful, plump cat, and we all eat with our hands and cover ourselves in delicious food like big ‘ol piggies at a trough.

So, me, just leave me alone in my happiness, would you? And instead of suggesting I take a walk or try a pilates class, please help me find a cool plus-size skirt to enjoy my life in because that’s enough of a win for me for now.

ME & MY PELOTON

by I like me!

ME NOT ON MY PELOTON

by I like me!