this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on May 6, 1999.
It was my fault, really, and I knew it. The minute I saw that terrific, white bikini on that model’s slim and firm body leaping out from the magazine’s glossy pages, I was like, EUREKA! That’s it! I could do this. Definitely. Like millions of young girls out there in the world who have lived on MTV and Diet Coke for most of their adolescent life, I grew up wishing, hoping and praying for that perfect body. Hey, I’ve been questing for it practically my whole life! Yup, questing–that sounds just about right.
When I was about 10, I was horrifyingly thin. My parents, both successful doctors, were appalled at the sight of their eldest child who looked like a prisoner of war. With their ”healthy” income, it was totally expected and extremely important that their children, especially the tall, eldest one, appeared well, uh, healthy! And so they tried every trick under the sun to get me to eat more. Requests for more Barbie dolls and expensive art materials were met with resounding no’s while even the slightest mention of that four-lettered word–food, in any form or shape–sent them scampering to the nearest bakery or fast-food to satisfy my every (well, almost–they weren’t fools, you know!) craving. That was how serious they were about the whole thing. But I didn’t think I looked that bad! Or did I?
Don’t get me wrong, I loved my parents dearly, but it got to a point where I began to wonder if they actually expected me to go through my grade-school years without thinking of anything else but food and doing nothing else but eat. I was just dying for those new watercolor paints and brushes and there I was surrounded with an eat-all-you-can buffet way before they became popular 13 years later! Well, it took a few more years before I finally began to look more than just a glorified twig. I had filled out in the chest area by the time I was in high school as was genetically expected, but it was in college that I began to get the (dangerous) curves we darn females are just so famous for. All of a sudden, my peers (my loyal friends, really) started telling me I was sexy! Imagine that. Too bad my parents were no longer around to see the fruits of their hard labor. That box of paints would have made a perfect reward. But then some good things–especially this good thing–are not destined to last very long. As I progressed in medical school, so did my weight, and in the same linear fashion. Whoever said that medical students end up looking like walking skeletons obviously never experienced obstetrics and gynecology at their very best. Why, eating is practically an art we medical students have perfected especially after exams–and that’s like every day.
All of a sudden, I was no longer worried about losing weight. Instead I have to fight off all those pounds that would have filled my parents with joy way back when I was in elementary school. But this is the ’90s, when obsession with this weight thing has created an entire industry which feeds on every girl’s and guy’s insecurities. And I, like the rest of them, am not entirely immune to its phenomenal influence. I know I’m not exactly physically or horizontally challenged. But I could be slimmer in certain preferred places. I mean, I too, would like to look as good as Claudia Schiffer and who wouldn’t? But I want to be so without having to resort to liposuction or diet pills, mind you. With my stomach ulcer, I couldn’t risk literally starving myself to death, could I?
So, I just did what a girl’s got to do. I went and enrolled myself at the gym. Aerobics and pulse rate training. One hour a day, every day except Sunday. Great. My sister said I wouldn’t last a week. I predicted that she would last a day or two. With two classes down, my back was already killing me. Those floor exercises were the worst. So, this is the price for vanity, huh? Of course, my fiance says it really isn’t necessary that I kill myself over this. He still loves me, perfect body or not. Good boy, that future hubby of mine. After all these years of being together, he knows what to say at exactly the right moment. But then what’s the point? My sister wails wearily as I drag her to aerobics class. Why indeed? Well, I’m suffering this simply because it makes me feel good. I want to feel good about myself. I know this is hard to comprehend when you’re lying on your butt with your legs flailing up in the air. But the truth is, at the end of the day, it does give me a sense of accomplishment and pride that I am sticking to something despite the sore muscles and all. And seeing the results of your hard work blossom right before your very eyes is something else. I guess it’s really just a matter of feeling fulfilled because of a job well done–even if it is just a ”washboard abdomen.” Working out also releases all the frustrations over life’s tough problems and gives me a feeling of self-renewal and confidence even as I do this truly exhausting routine.
I feel that if I can do this, then I can work just as hard and hurdle all the other challenges coming my way as I pursue other important goals of my life. Some people call this perseverance. Others say it’s commitment. I say it’s all that and more. Or less, actually. I mean, I just want to wear the clothes that I love and which I probably won’t look good wearing when I am 50. Now’s my chance to actually look and feel great while wearing that sexy red dress that’s been forever hanging unused but not unappreciated in my closet. Besides, I’ve never worn a bikini in my life. Hey, it could happen.
