That Damn Jog Bra

No one had seen me in a bra except for my husband and my kids (Lord, help my kids!) in at least three decades. Suddenly, I found myself willingly taking off my shirt, and stepping in front of a camera. I was wearing skintight black leggings, and a black jog bra (are there any that look good and still function?), my stretch marks and folds of flab on full display. My body was shaking. What was I doing?

At the time, it seemed like a brilliant idea. I was unhappy with my body. (Unhappy with me? My life?) And I had a little less than a year to transform into a sexy, “new” woman, with JLo as my inspiration. I’d be “Fabulous at 50.” Sharing with readers along the way, soliciting their help, engaging in fascinating discussions, and writing about it all. It would culminate in a bikini photoshoot. Easy. Right?

I pitched it to my editor. He liked it. I planned to do it whether he liked it or not, but was it something the paper might be interested in? My column only appears every other Sunday and I didn’t know if I was ready to give up writing about things like politics, the environment, COVID, etc. to focus solely on this. I was hoping for more. Women can’t get away from their bodies and their looks, but they also want to engage in other discussions — we’re multifaceted. He said he’d think about it. I’d think about it too. Maybe I’d find things would naturally intersect.

I offered to email “before” photos — understanding I was already about two months in. He cautiously agreed. I should send in whatever I was comfortable with, and they’d see if there was something they could use.

So here I stood. With my breasts smashed into the bra that almost sprained my hand the first time I put it on. It wasn’t pretty then. It wasn’t pretty now. And I wanted someone to photograph me in it. Yup. I had lost my mind.

But my friend was so professional. Clinical almost. Told me I looked great. Then reminded me we were losing the light. I took off my glasses and we went to work. He took the first photo and exclaimed how fantastic I looked and flipped the camera around, “Look! You look incredible!” I had to grab my glasses to see. (I’m already that old. Can’t see without my glasses.) I took one look and was horrified. As if on command, I felt my cheeks heat up as the flush spread to them. My body broke out in a sweat. My eyes started to well up with tears, but I stopped them before he noticed. I removed my glasses and told him I didn’t need to see more, snapping, “Let’s just do this!”

He kept telling me that I looked great. That he was going to have a hard time capturing anything that would convey that I was struggling with body issues. I doubted his sincerity, but it helped reduce my anxiety. I put my shirt back on for more photos, and breathed a bit more easily until he told me it was too loose. I needed to cinch it so he could see my belly. UGH! The humiliation. “Excellent! Oooh! Now we can see a double chin!” Double humiliation!

I wanted to crawl into a hole. But at this point, my column was written, I had already told my husband, my kids, my workout buddy, and of course, my editor. I took a very deep breath. Yes. I wanted to do this. Double-chin be damned! Flabby arms, go ahead, mock me. And my nemesis? My stomach paunch. Let’s give the camera a big smile!

I got through what we thought was needed and then my friend asked me if I wanted anything else. I hesitated… Yes… Back and butt photos.

“What?!” he asked.

Back and butt. I needed to have photos of my back and my butt.

Shirt off again, he started to photograph my back and asked if I was sure. I laughed, “Uh… yes!”

He paused and delicately explained that I had, some, um, extra skin hanging over.

“That’s the point!” I said, “Let’s document it. And then pray I can stick with this so that in a couple of months when we take more photos, I’ll look totally different.”

It took a moment, but he laughed, finally understanding. And then went back to work.

Ok. On to the buttocks…

“I have a problem. I don’t know if I can get a good photo. You have no butt!”

“I know. I have no butt.”

I don’t know if it’s genetic. Or if it was from all the walking I’ve done already. But it’s true. I have no butt. Another reason JLo serves as an inspiration.

We laughed. We were losing the light, and I needed photographic evidence of my butt. He tried. He really did. Asking me to turn this way and that. I promised to come back another time. Maybe colored leggings would help? (I didn’t tell him then, but it crossed my mind that I might have to strip down to my undies and he might need a zoom lens to find my butt.) We discussed why I cared about my butt. And whether a “bubble butt” was the aim. It was not. I just wanted a bit of roundness. Was that too much to ask? We laughed.

DONE!

I stepped to the side to put on my shirt. And despite having lowered my anxiety, suddenly I felt vulnerable. My friend, still professional and thoughtful, turned his body so I could slip into my shirt quickly. It felt absurd. We laughed again.

He offered reassurance and wanted to show me the photos. I balked. I told him to send them to me later. I’d look at them in private. He suggested how to share them with my editor. Better to choose a few rather than send the bunch. My editor didn’t need to see my back — really no one does. I suspected this process might be as mortifying for him as it is for me. The least I could do was to make it as painless as possible for both of us.

I went home. Joked about it all with my husband and kids. And I stayed up late. Waiting.

When the Dropbox hit my email, I held my breath and clicked. It was bad. I mean, I knew it would be, but come on! I texted my friend. We went back and forth for a while, dissecting photos. He finally asked, “Why are you texting in all caps?”

I responded, “BECAUSE I’M DYING!”

He recommended a few photos that might be appropriate. I remarked I’d take them under consideration, and went to bed. In the morning, I asked my husband to peruse a few. “Please STAY on THESE lines ONLY!” We settled on three photos. Two with a shirt, one in a jog bra.

I emailed my column to my editor. The photos were emailed separately. I needed a minute before I could hit that send button. I asked my editor to let me know if they’d use any of them so I could go into the weekend mentally prepared. They opted for one in a shirt. It made good sense. They still wanted to sell papers.

My column came out on Sunday. My weigh-in day. My week had gone fairly well. But not as well as I had liked. My knees were starting to ache. Really ache. I had ramped up mileage too quickly. Consequently, I had to back off exertion and mileage. I had also taken a trip to Boston and missed a workout. Not to mention spaghetti night at my mom’s had been moved from Friday to Saturday night. (Oh, spaghetti night! How I love you!) But the night before weighing in? Unwise.

Last week, I weighed in at 138. I had lost a total of 12.5 pounds. A steady progression and a respectable number. I disrobed. Even took off my glasses and my hair band. (Every ounce counts, right?!) I cautiously stepped onto the scale…

139

Crap.

I stepped off. And stepped back on.

139

Ok, ONE MORE TIME. Come on, baby!!!!

1 3 9

Deep breath.

This was supposed to be “easy,” right?

My column was out. And readers were already responding. I had already received so many messages of support. People with eating disorders, women struggling with their body image, people telling me I was brave, and some who had even gone for walks because I had inspired them. My heart was bursting.

And yet… I was feeling overwhelmed and sooooo tired. I crawled into bed. Pulled the covers over my head. And I took a nap. When I awoke, I messaged my workout buddy, Jeff. He was at the gym and was almost done walking. Ugh.

I got up. I threw on that damn jog bra. (Almost sprained my hand again.) Put on my skort, and went to the track. I met some tourists from Alabama who lifted my spirits. And I walked 4 miles.

BOOM!

I can do this.

***

Ok, this is not going to be easy. But I’m going to keep it real. And I don’t have a plan. I’m making this up as I go. When I feel like writing, I’ll come here and share if I’m not writing something for my regular column. I hope you’ll come here and read. And maybe share your thoughts too, here or on Instagram @hilarydkoch or Twitter @HilaryDKoch .