Mirror, Mirror Off the Wall

by Kjerstin Gruys

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Copyright © 2013 by Kjerstin Gruys

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  Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gruys, Kjerstin.

  Mirror, mirror off the wall : how I learned to love my body by not looking at it for a year / Kjerstin Gruys.

  p. cm

  ISBN 978-1-101-60905-7

  1. Gruys, Kjerstin. 2. Feminine beauty (Aesthetics) 3. Body image in women. 4. Self-esteem in women. I. Title.

  HQ1219.G79 2013 2013003694

  646.7'042—dc23

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers, Internet addresses, and other contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.

  This book is dedicated to my parents, Julie Elmen and Ken Gruys, who enthusiastically allowed me to dress up as a bowl of salad for that Halloween costume contest at Kehrs Mill Elementary. From Day 1, you have unfailingly nurtured my creativity, celebrated my passions, and embraced my special brand of weird. Thank you for raising me to challenge injustice, and for loving me unconditionally.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  INTRODUCTION

  ONE | March

  TWO | April

  THREE | May

  FOUR | June

  FIVE | July

  SIX | August

  SEVEN | September

  EIGHT | October

  NINE | November, December

  TEN | January, February, March

  AFTERWORD/REFLECTIONS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  RECOMMENDED READING

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  A year from now you will wish you had started today.

  KAREN LAMB

  IN 2011, THE AVERAGE AMERICAN BRIDE SPENT JUST OVER $1,200 on her wedding dress. While planning my October 1, 2011, wedding, I spent almost $2,400 on four of them. You read that correctly: four. Depending on how you look at it, this makes me either a fantastic bargain hunter or just plain nuts. It’s fair to say that I was a bit of both. Despite my determination to stay true to my frugal midwestern roots and to not become a bratty bridezilla, I desperately wanted to look stunningly beautiful and fashionably fabulous in my wedding dress. To complicate matters, I was a body-image expert who wanted to lose weight before the big day (or at least find a dress—or four!—that would make me look thinner). When I began freaking out about my appearance, I was told by many people, “Oh, don’t worry. That’s normal. You’re going to be a bride! Just have fun with it.” But I did worry, and I wasn’t having as much fun as I’d hoped. I realized that what our culture views as “normal” for brides-to-be wasn’t what I wanted for myself.

  Planning my wedding brought forth a fundamental mismatch between my values and my vanity. This book tells the story of how I came to recognize this mismatch, what I decided to do about it, and what I learned along the way.

  What, exactly, did I do? I challenged myself to give up looking at myself in mirrors—and all reflective surfaces—for a year. Some might say that by shunning mirrors, I simply replaced one form of insanity with another. Fair enough, but my journey wasn’t motivated by a desire to be perfectly sane (how boring!). Rather, I was desperate to contend with some painful contradictions in my character, and I decided that feeling authentic and taking care of myself were more important than being a “normal” bride. Sometimes you have to do something extreme and crazy in order to find balance and sanity in the end.

  I hope that reading about my year without mirrors will encourage you to take steps in your own life to more closely align your everyday habits with your values and sense of authentic self. Maybe you’re a bride-to-be who is facing similar frustrations with the wedding industry. Or maybe getting married is the last thing on your mind, but you still struggle to feel authentic in your choices. Or perhaps it’s as simple as this: You hate your thighs (or stomach, or boobs, or hair, or . . . whatever), but a part of you also hates yourself for hating your body. I know how you feel. With a multibillion-dollar beauty and fashion industry telling us how to look, how to act, what products and clothes to buy—and promising us a happy life if we keep buying—we have a lot stacked against us when we try to carve out space for individuality, authenticity, and healthy body image (not to mention responsible spending!). All together, these goals may seem like an overwhelming challenge, but they are worth pursuing.

  This book is not a self-help guide, just a story of how I helped myself. It is shaped by my unique goals, experiences, and my appetite for trying weird things. Your path will be different, but I hope you’re able to learn something from mine. At the very least, I can promise a few chuckles at my expense along the way.

  INTRODUCTION

  Bewilderment increases in the presence of mirrors.

  TARJEI VESAAS

  I BOUGHT MY FIRST WEDDING DRESS THE VERY SAME WEEK THAT I got engaged. In my giddiness at being officially betrothed, I attended one of those epic Los Angeles sample sales with a friend who was also planning her wedding. We were both broke graduate students at UCLA, with low budgets but high-fashion aspirations. The sale promised “designer gowns at bargain-basement prices!” and we were amped and idealistic. I rehearsed my high school basketball boxing-out moves in my mind as we waited in line. Soon it was our turn.

  You know how these things work: If you find a dress you like, you have to pounce on it like a Bengal tiger wielding credit card claws, lest it be wrested from your grasp by another bride-to-be. The shop was crowded, but I persevered and managed to grab an armful of contenders. I could barely see over the pile of lace, silk, organza, and taffeta stacked in my arms, but somehow I made it past several similarly overburdened brides-to-be on my way to the communal fitting rooms. An overly cheery sales associate examined my choices (for what, I don’t know) and pointed me to a corner. Another saleswoman—this one underly cheery—paced through the crowd to assist the throngs of women trying on dresses. At first I assumed that this second woman’s job was to make sure our dressing needs were being taken care of, but it quickly became clear that her primary goal was to protect the merchandise from damage
. (Brides are a dangerous sort, I suppose.) Shrugging to myself, I stripped down to my undies and the requisite nude strapless bra and got down to business.

  Now, at five-feet-five and 155 pounds, I’m pretty average in size (an 8 or 10 at most middle-America mall stores), but most of the dresses I picked were too small. I was prepared for some of this. I’d heard rumors that bridal sizes typically ran smaller than everyday clothes, but still, you’d think the “sample sizes” would be more accommodating! Considering that the average American woman wears a size 14, it seems more than a bit shortsighted for bridal boutiques to carry samples only in even-smaller-than-usual sizes 8 and 10. This was mildly frustrating, especially when I was interrupted mid-zip by the underly cheery sales associate announcing loudly that I wasn’t ALLOWED to try on one of my selections because the dress zipper threatened to break from the strain of being zipped over my ass. Ugh! Fail.

  A few other dresses managed to zip up without causing a commotion, but in each one I looked as uncomfortable as I felt. These damned curves! I cursed to myself. I am built more like a Coca-Cola bottle than the ever-coveted hourglass. My mother affectionately calls it “Body by Bartlett” (as in the pear).

  But then one dress in particular caught my eye: a gorgeous blush-colored gown made of elegant slubbed silk, with hand-tatted lace detailing and a dramatic train of pleated taffeta layered with more lace. The ex–fashion merchandiser in me was starry-eyed and enamored by the fancy details and high-end label. The current penny-pinching grad student in me was relieved by the 80 percent discount. It fit the bill, and my butt—and it was a size 8! I tried calling my mom for advice, but I couldn’t get through. However, my friend, the saleswomen (both suddenly cheery again, now that I seemed on the verge of purchase!), and my aunt Sarah—who lives in South Dakota and had received pictures via text—all approved of the dress enthusiastically. So I bought it. I loved it. It loved me. Until somehow we fell out of love.

  Mirrors were to blame. Damned mirrors. I tried on that amazing, gorgeous, fantastic dress at least once every few weeks for three months, just to look at myself wearing it again. I wanted to envision how glamorous and sophisticated I’d look while sashaying down the aisle. But each time I saw myself, I felt a bit less sure. Despite zipping smoothly over my derriere, the dress was, undeniably, a bit tight around my waist and hips. Coca-Cola bottles, as you know, start rounding out at midsection. Through the delicate slubbed silk, I could see the shadow of my belly button (or, more specifically, the doughnut of flesh surrounding it). Still, it was a negligible tightness—the type remedied by a month of skipped desserts and two pairs of Spanx. At first I confidently told myself that it would be easy to fit into the dress in time for my October wedding—a full eleven months away. I also knew that, at the very least, the gown could be let out a smidge by a skilled seamstress. But as the weeks wore on, I became less and less excited. Trying on my wedding dress was supposed to instill confidence and positive anticipation for the big day, but the sight of a bit of belly behind the fabric was disheartening. Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t breathe when it was fully zipped. I began to resent the dress, and myself.

  What’s wrong with me? I wondered. Why am I having so much anxiety about my looks? Why now, when I should be feeling my most beautiful?

  It bothered me tremendously. Not only because I wanted to feel happy with my appearance, but also because having a poor body image made me feel like a total hypocrite. Why a hypocrite, you ask? Well, in my final years of high school and beginning years of college, I suffered from anorexia. I was lucky to have fought my way into recovery by the end of college, but the experience changed my outlook on life profoundly. I’ve always had a thing for fashion, so after college—where I majored in sociology and minored in women’s studies—I worked in the fashion industry for a few years, but it wasn’t the right fit (pun intended!). Having battled an eating disorder and embraced feminism along the way, it felt utterly wrong to work in an industry known for glorifying emaciation.

  So, as much as I loved the creativity and glamour of the fashion world (not to mention all the freebies and discounts on great clothes!), I gave up my career to return to school and earn a PhD in sociology. My chosen topic of study? Our beauty culture and how it shapes women’s lives. Since then, I’d published academic articles about how the U.S. media reports on body size, I’d publicly lectured about the dangers of eating disorders, and I’d actively encouraged my students and friends to accept and celebrate their diverse bodies. I even volunteered at a nonprofit organization, About-Face, which works to improve teen girls’ body images. In other words, I’d made it my life’s work to help women feel confident, strong, and beautiful. Yet I was still struggling to accept my own body. I was a body-image expert with a body-image problem.

  I wasn’t starving myself anymore, but I still spent a lot of time and energy attending to my appearance. I rarely left the house without makeup, I indulged in mani-pedis every few weeks, and I enjoyed frequent bargain shopping to spruce up my wardrobe. I subscribed to several fashion and fitness magazines and, since becoming engaged, had added three bridal magazines to the list. I was mostly okay with these vain-ish interests; as a scholar, it comforted me to know that human beings in virtually every known culture alter their appearances to express themselves and to communicate social standing. My concern with appearance was a part of my humanity. Yet I also suspected that, like most things in life, when it came to beauty there existed a point of diminishing returns. I felt myself approaching it.

  And I had many reasons to feel beautiful, or, at the very least, to feel attractive enough to accept myself and get on with enjoying my life. I was engaged to Michael, a brilliant and kind man with a sexy, dimpled smile and gentle gray eyes. Michael found me gorgeous and attractive, and told me so all the time. I had wonderfully close friendships with several strong, smart, and funny women—all whom I saw as stunningly beautiful, though none looked like supermodels. Most important, I was lucky enough to have been raised by parents who consistently emphasized the importance of my character over my appearance. My mother is one of those rare American women who has never dieted, and I have no memory of her berating her body in front of me. My younger siblings, Hanna and Peter, and I were taught that our bodies were wonderful because of all the things they could do (play sports! give hugs! make art!), rather than for how they looked. So, unlike a lot of women, I really had a fighting chance to love my body. But I didn’t. And seeing myself in that too-tight wedding dress was dragging me down a path I recognized as dangerous.

  And so it was that I found myself frantically scouring eBay for a replacement gown. It was more than seven months till my wedding, but all of the bridal magazines I’d been reading told me that I ought to have my dress ordered at least seven to nine months ahead of time. Having already spent almost $1,000 on dress number one, I was determined to find a real steal this time around. I gave myself an ambitiously low budget of $300 (about as much credit as was still available on my Visa card) and vowed to find something simple, elegant, and affordable. A cream-colored silk sheath from J.Crew, with cap sleeves and a cutout back, seemed like it might be the answer to my problems. It was elegant, minimalist, and—most important—available in non-bridal size 10. For $250, and with swallowed pride, I clicked the “Buy Now” button and crossed my fingers.

  And then, just before I could sign out of eBay, the screen automatically flashed several “similar items” that might interest me. Sure enough, my eyes caught sight of an adorable short-skirted dress made of creamy embroidered shantung silk. The description charmingly called it the “Little White Dress.” Visions of an elegant ceremony gown followed by a less formal reception dress shot into my imagination. For a mere seventy-five dollars more, I could pull a Kate Middleton and enjoy two grand entrances! Click.

  Two weeks later, the sheath dress (aka Dress #2) arrived. Much to my chagrin (and additional portions of swallowed pride), it looked terrible on me. Not only was the dress
about ten inches too long, but all of the proportions seemed generally geared toward a woman much, much taller than my five-five frame. The thinness of the fabric accentuated all the wrong curves (was that back fat?!?) and—adding insult to injury—what I’d taken to be cream was actually beige, a notoriously awful tone for pale-skinned blondes like myself. I’d made another awful mistake. With $1,300 in credit card debt and no stomach for further financial risk and embarrassment, I resigned myself to making things work with Dress #1. But a big question weighed on my mind: Should I spend a few hundred bucks to have the dress altered, or should I lose weight? The former would be expensive, but the latter could be dangerous. I decided I still had time to think this over. At least my little white reception dress (#3) was cute!

  Flash forward a few more weeks to March of 2011. I found myself back in my childhood hometown of St. Louis, visiting my parents while attending the Midwestern Sociological Association’s annual conference. I was booked to give four presentations in two days, but I hoped to sneak in some quality family time in the evenings. My mom, who hadn’t been able to go wedding dress shopping with me the first (or second! or third!) time, had heard enough of my kvetching about the dress situation and had made appointments at area bridal salons, “just to look.” I told her I was sick of looking at wedding dresses, but I was really just sick of looking at myself in them, not to mention embarrassed to have already blown my budget on poor choices.

  Mere minutes after my final conference presentation, my mom called to let me know she was on her way to pick me up at the conference center. We were bound for bridal salons, and despite my post-presentation exhaustion, my mom’s excitement was contagious. I felt myself becoming optimistic. Aren’t brides supposed to shop for dresses with their mothers? Maybe I jinxed myself on the first gowns by not following tradition! Truth be told, I’d imagined this day for ages: My mom and I would bond over the subtleties of ivory vs. diamond white and sip champagne while being fussed over by charming sales associates. I’d use my well-honed aesthetic sensibilities to find the gown that perfectly expressed my unique personality and taste in fashion while morphing me into my best self; I’d feel like a beautiful fairy-tale princess when I finally found “the one.” Besides, my mom has always been my favorite shopping partner. Like me, she’s in it strictly for the bargains and is always on the lookout for flattering classics with a quirky twist.