Polyester and Shame

Mark Meyer and I went to a wedding last night and I had a fantastic time. And then we went to Kensington this morning and I figured out why.

When the invitation originally came in the mail for the wedding a few months back, I anxiously calculated how many months post-partum I would be, wondered if I’d be sleeping regularly, and crossed my fingers that I’d somehow feel comfortable in my skin by then. My c-section incision burned, my hairline was (and is still) receding, and I hadn’t applied any kind of makeup in weeks. All of my clothes smelled like Maverick’s million-dollar formula and I was still in that mode where I wasn’t sure if my pajamas were my day clothes or my day clothes were my pajamas. The thought of going out in public and getting dressed up made me shift uncomfortably.

I ordered a dress from a website I’d frequented before and prayed that it would be acceptable to get me through the wedding. And then an email arrived this week telling me that due to Diwali celebrations in India, the dress wouldn’t arrive until the Monday after the wedding. So I got a little flustered. The thought of trying dresses on while Maeve opened and closed a fitting room door and demanded snacks made me panic. I had an hour left before I had to pick her up from school, so I hurried to the nearest plus-size clothing store with Maverick in his carrier and began trying on anything I could find that might work.

And it was awful.

Why are we still making clothes out of polyester?

Some of the dresses were made of polyester and the material felt punishing. It draped unforgivingly over my belly like a grandmother’s tablecloth and accentuated the changes that have happened to my body since I’ve had children. Maverick began to stir in his carrier and my pulse continued to race because I knew I had to feed him but I also wanted to cram myself into some Spanx suits of armor and see if there was any way I could make something work. Under the fluorescent lighting, my inner monologue started to get louder and harder to ignore. “You’ve let yourself go. Look at your stomach. How could Mark ever be attracted to you like this? You can’t even shave your legs anymore? How lazy are you, Sarah? Honestly, you have to get it together. You’re not the only woman with young children. All those other women can hold it together. Why can’t you?”

I left the store with tears in the back of my eyes, overwhelmed by shame and frustration. Alas, I had to swallow both emotions and manage baby and toddler dinner time until Mark got home and I could go out and search for dresses yet again.

When Mark arrived home that night, I hurriedly shoved the baby into his arms and, with a shaky voice, told him, “I have to leave. I have to go find a dress for this wedding and of course, nothing fits and I’m uncomfortable in everything and I haven’t even had time to take my hair out of its ponytail, let alone coordinate a look.”

Shame won. Shame had convinced me that I needed to take up less space, less fabric, less emotions. Shame somehow crept into my brain and convinced me that I was only worthy if I wore a much smaller size dress to this wedding.

But I’ve worked too hard and I’ve lost too much and I’ve come too far to let shame manipulate me any longer.

Shame had already won when I was in third grade and I played the role of Santa Claus in the class Christmas play because I was taller than all the other girls and boys. I had to borrow Matt Simpson’s red sweatpants for the role because I didn’t have any red pants.

Shame had already won when I was 13 and wore my adult neighbor’s dress with shoulder pads to middle school for a career day interview. (What in the hell was going on in my parents’ head? No one could have managed to take me to store to buy a dress?)

Shame had already won when I was embarrassed that I couldn’t buy my senior year Homecoming dress at a store at the mall. Lindsay Bago’s mom drove me to a store with extended sizes in Richmond. (And God bless her for doing so.)

I know too much now to let shame win in this situation.

So I started to tell myself truths.

I told myself I was not the bride. No one would care what I was wearing because I am the wife of a high school friend of the groom. These people could care less what I wear. It’s their day.

I told myself I’ve had two babies in two years and my body has been so loyal to me. It delivered one baby vaginally after 18 hours of labor and underwent surgery only four months ago to safely bring the other baby earthside.

I told myself I deserve to have a fun evening out with my husband and, dammit, for the work I do in that fifth grade classroom, I deserve to show up to the wedding in whatever garb I want. Anyone who has to be in charge of 35 children at the Coyote Carnival once a year deserves her own signature drink on the menu.

This morning at Kensington, the pastor spoke about monitoring our thoughts and giving power to the truth and not to the lies.

Now. I love me some Kensington. I love the music and I love the fact that I can hand Maeve Meyer off to a friendly gentleman named Mr. Greg who entertains her for an hour while I eat a Godly bagel and I love the fact that they teach me how to apply God’s word in my every day life. But today was something else. Today was an intersection of church and real world.

This man stood on the stage and reaffirmed everything I needed to hear at this particular spot in my journey. I held my sweet Maverick and listened to this pastor say, “Let go of the stories of your past. God can use divine power to blow up the stronghold of your mind and lead you in a different direction.”

Blow up the stronghold, God. Blow up the shame that I’ve carried for DECADES about not being as small as other women. While I’m holding my son, remind me that he wants ME to hold him. Maverick is comforted by MY body. My body alone calms him when he is crying. My body is the vessel that gave my children life.

I wore a dress I had delivered to the house via airmail and beach-waved my hair for the first time in a year.

I instructed Mark Meyer to keep the kids downstairs for over an hour so I could get ready properly and enjoy the process.

I saw the look on his face when I walked in the kitchen.

And instead of concealing it, I pressed my stomach against his when we danced at the wedding and he smiled and said, “Babe. Match.com. And Maeve and Maverick.”

I blew up that shame stronghold and went in a totally different direction.