The Eye of the Beholder

Redefining notions of beauty

If you’ve been following me here, on social media, or reading my columns, you know I’m on a personal journey and transformation of sorts. If you read my last column, you know I hate my arms. My arms, along with a lot of the rest of my body. Taking stock of my naked body in the mirror, making a list of everything I hate, and writing about it were both difficult and freeing. Similar to a psychological exercise to overcome anxiety, like writing down fears, tearing them up, and throwing them away. Only I made mine public. However, unlike my first column, from which I had received enthusiastic and encouraging responses. This column? Silence.

To be fair, what could I expect? Did I honestly think I could write, “I hate my flabby arms,” and someone would send an email to say, “Flabby arms are lovely!”?! Of course not. I also understand that as an opinion columnist, not everything I write will resonate with readers to the point where they’re moved to write me. Especially when we’re talking about something as personal as body image. Finally, I reminded myself that while I always strive to strike a chord with readers, my measuring tool for gauging “success” may need tweaking.

Yet a week later, someone DID call me to tell me that flabby arms can be lovely. It was my mother. She had read my column and at the time neglected to say anything positive (or negative) about it. I mistook her silence for disapproval or disagreement. I was wrong. She was incredibly busy and just wanted more time to share her thoughts with me…

My mother proceeded to tell me that her earliest memory in life was that of her grandmother (whose memory was honored in my middle name by the way). Her grandmother was waving her arms hard as my mom watched the flab underneath shake back and forth. She remembered the two of them laughing hysterically at the flab, and my mother touching my grandmother’s arms. She described my grandmother’s laugh like it was music. The softness of her arms like they were silk. And that moment, being the very earliest and first memory of my mother’s life, my great grandmother’s arms were something magical.

My mother didn’t know I hated my arms. Had I not written about them, she wouldn’t have remembered or shared her memory of my great-grandmother with me. And as she told me, her voice cracked a bit, and I teared up. What might be something of ugliness to one person, can indeed be something of great and everlasting beauty to another.

I told my mother I still don’t like my arms. That I still want them toned. But I’m not going to lie. This last week, I’ve been caressing the flab underneath them and no longer really hating them. In fact, after taking the time to moisturize my skin after showers, I kind of like how soft they are. I’ve even worn some sleeveless shirts in public.

So, this is a thank you to that one very special reader who took the time to tell me her story. A story that will forever change the way I will look at my arms. Thanks, Mom!