Notes from an Incomplete Revolution: Real Life Since Feminism - Hardcover

Maran, Meredith

 
9780553099522: Notes from an Incomplete Revolution: Real Life Since Feminism
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0553099523 ISBN 13: 9780553099522
Verlag: Bantam Dell Pub Group, 1997

Inhaltsangabe

A collection of personal reflections of the author's life explore the conflicts involved in being a feminist and assesses the threats to women and the reasons for hope

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Aus dem Klappentext

e had in mind, when my friends and I threw away our bras, was power.  We wanted the world to widen to women.  We wanted more respect, higher wages, better marriages than our mothers', bigger lives than any generation of women had ever known."<br><br>"We had big plans for men, too.  The more optimistic among us envisioned a new breed of men who would cook and cry, go to therapy and diaper babies, assist us in achieving the multiple orgasms we so deserved, and then pop out of bed to clean the bathroom."<br><br>Meredith Maran's first book, <i>What It's Like to Live Now</i>, was an amazingly candid and often hilarious memoir of her journey from a sixties idealist to a nineties new woman, complete with two teenage sons, a female lover, and a hefty mortgage.  Now, with the same reckless honesty, she returns to explore life--hers and ours, female and male--in the wake of the women's movement.<br><br>Today we earn more money than o

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I remember exactly when I stopped eating breakfast.  It was the summer of 1982, when I decided to change my life.  I was thirty-one.  I hadn't had a baby for two years, but I still weighed 135, twenty pounds more than my pre-pregnancy weight.  Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw myself as I'd been when I was nine months pregnant with Peter: one hundred and eighty-five pounds.  I saw my eyes, chin, cheekbones sunken into the bloated balloon of my face.  The dimpled, loose flesh hanging from my thighs and upper arms.  The rolling mountain range of my post-partum stomach.  The unforgiving face of the scale, which reported dispassionately upon my return from the hospital that even after delivering a seven-pound baby and consuming nothing more caloric than ice chips, Jell-O, and bouillon all that postsurgical week, I still had fifty-three pounds to lose.  Fifty-three pounds!

"Eating for two" (or in my case, for twenty-two) had given me the excuse I needed to relax my vigilance, indulge my long-suppressed hunger, surrender at last to my demon lover: food.  And what a price I'd paid.  My mother's warning had finally come true.  "Your father was skinny, like you, when he was a kid," my mother used to tell me.  "Then when he was twenty, he got fat, practically overnight.  And you have your father's body."  Now that haunting image--my once-trim self trapped forever in my father's fat body--was staring back at me. See what happens when you let yourself have what you want?

It wasn't just the twenty pounds (and gaining) that made me decide to change my life.  I hated living in San Jose, hated my Silicon Valley job, my marriage, my size-fourteen jeans, my inertia.  Every morning I tried to come up with one thing I could look forward to that day; food was almost always it.  A corporate lunch with co-workers at that all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet.  The butter cream-frosted birthday cake we'd ordered for a secretary's birthday.  The coffee ice cream in the freezer; the jar of hot fudge sauce in the fridge.

After four years of marriage counseling, our therapist prescribed a weekend apart.  I spent it at my friend Leslie's apartment in San Francisco.  Leslie gave me the secret recipe for her newly svelte body: three or four cups of fresh-ground decaf for "breakfast."  A cup of low-fat cottage cheese with unsweetened applesauce to make it through to dinner.  And dinner--I was tired of cooking those meat/starch/iceberg lettuce meals that Rich loved, the meals his mother (and mine) had served every night of our childhoods at precisely six o'clock.  This, at least, I could do something about.  I stopped buying roasts and chops, started buying fish and pasta.  Stopped slathering butter on everything; stopped dragging Rich out for overpriced, overcooked restaurant meals every Saturday night; stopped settling down with Rich when the kids were finally asleep with a half-gallon of ice cream and two spoons.

Stopped settling down with Rich altogether.  It was as if by setting my own food on the table, I had set my own discontent, newly determined self there, too.  Without the consuming daily distraction of food to soften my jagged edges, without the smooth gloss of fat to coat my tongue, I could no longer deny that what I wanted more of was neither steak nor hot fudge.  In November 1982 I quit my job and started writing for magazines.  In March 1983 Rich and I separated.  I fell in love with Ann, moved to Oakland; made a life I loved in Oakland--a life with plenty to look forward to besides food.  Reached all those goals, and this one too: I was down to a hundred fifteen pounds.  And one meal a day.  People said I looked great, asked what my secret was.  A few friends--all of them women, obviously just jealous--asked worriedly if I was eating enough.  "Are you sure you're not getting too thin?"  Too thin! "You're so skinny, your ribs are showing."  Skinny!  I ate it up.

And now, after ten years of watching my baseline weight creep up to 118, then 122, then 125--fighting every pound, depriving myself of more and more, longing to recapture "the old me" I continue to think of as "the real me," the 115-pound me--something is eating me up.

"I needed to lose a lot of weight after I had my kids," I tell Dr.  Wylie.  "I guess I got into some bad habits I haven't quite broken."

He nods.  "This diet you've been on could certainly explain your symptoms," he says.  Diet?  I don't go on diets--I'm a feminist!  I know better!  I just eat...lightly.

"Having little or no food in your system for most of the day, then eating one big meal," he continues, "can really foul up the digestive process.  I think if you start eating three healthy meals a day"--he peers at me intently--"three full meals a day--you'll feel better."

Three meals a day?  I can barely stay at 125 on one meal a day!

For the past ten years, I have unthinkingly, unhesitatingly chosen being thin over being healthy.  Now this doctor and my own body are telling me I need to make the opposite choice.  To end this punishing relationship with food, this denial of my own hearty appetites.  To actually live what my feminist principles and common sense dictate: to eat when I'm hungry, stop when I'm full, indulge the occasional craving, give my body and mind the fuel and the faith they need to do what they were designed to do.  I contemplate this possibility now with longing, and terror.  Three meals a day.  Not walking around hungry.  Watching the numbers on the scale go up, and up, and up...

"Are you worried about gaining weight?"  Dr. Wylie asks.  Busted!  This is my double shame: not only am I in daily violation of feminism, obsessed with my weight, hatefully critical of my body, in slavish submission to the beauty myth--but I'm not even overweight enough to justify it.  If I weighed 185 now, as I did fifteen years ago, Dr. Wylie would understand my fixation.  He'd sympathize, suggest a weight loss program.  He'd help me.  But Dr. Wylie looks at me and sees an average woman, a fit woman, maybe even a thin woman.  How can Dr. Wylie, how can anyone look at my five-foot-six, 125-pound body and understand the sinking of my heart, the roar of recrimination that fills my head on those dark mornings when the scale reads 126?  Only I know how much better I'd look, how much better I'd feel, how much better I'd be if I just weighed ten pounds less.  How can I explain that my need to keep my hard-won title--Size Eight--is every bit as powerful as my craving was to earn it?

"Meredith?"  he prods me.  Then, gently, "I'm sure you know how dangerous it is to starve yourself.  And how prevalent eating disorders are among women in this country..."  

"Of course I do!" I snap.


Of course I do.

I am a student of eating disorders, an eager reader of every magazine article on the subject, every news story, research study, and novel.  I watch all those made-for-TV movies, every documentary...

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Verlag
Bantam Dell Pub Group
Erscheinungsdatum
1997
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0553099523
ISBN 13 
9780553099522
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
256
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
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