Cloaked in Metaphor

Ladies: Do you have one of these hanging in your closet?



Hideous, yes? And it looks just as uncomfortable. It's called a hairshirt, and lest you think H&M has finally lost its mind, it's important to know that it's strictly historical. At different times throughout Christianity, monks, priests, and other devotees wore these to induce a constant state of discomfort. Made of coarse cloth and animal hair, they were meant to be worn as penance, and to be a constant, physical reminder of the shame of sin. Also, they were itchy.

In recent times, the word "hairshirt" has been used idiomatically to mean a sort of self-induced punishment, a la "Hey, Bob. I'm sorry I blew up your grill. Don't make me put on a hairshirt." But really, would hairshirts be the provenance of the Bobs of the world? If I may be radically essentialist for a moment, assuming the jerky, grill-destroying speaker is male, chances are he's more likely to feel brief dismay easily overcome by just replacing the grill.

No, I'm far more inclined to believe that it's us girls who've cornered the market on this one. Along with clothes, shoes, and the boxed remnants of a stuffed Grateful Dead bear collection, I fear that there's one of those things taking up valuable real estate in my closet. And every time I see a picture of myself, some part of my mind strips down to the skivvies and races to put it on.

Now, don't get me wrong. I wouldn't say I obsess over body image. I certainly don't have some kind of body dysmorphic syndrome, like Michael Jackson. But it seems that at every stage of my life, I'm constantly measuring pictures of myself up to some Platonic version of me that, I'm fairly certain, has never actually existed.

Many pictures contain elements of her-- in this one, my arms look thinner. In that one, my stomach's sucked in. And in this other one (which really did happen), I'm 23 and ready to go clubbing in Kansas, of all places, and the stars aligned to produce a skinny, perfect-haired me, all decked out in a tight top with a silver necklace dancing above my cleavage. I look good. But not Platonically good, because let's be honest-- were those the most flattering jeans?

And there it is, all wrapped up in a homonym sandwich. My most flattering genes are currently crawling across the living room carpet, having cozied up to those of my husband's and produced a baby that, all bias aside, is one gorgeous little girl.

So now what? What happens on some rainy Sunday when she wants to play dress up, and she shoves aside the old bridesmaid's dresses to see the hairshirt hanging there?

I could say "That's not for wearing," but I'd be lying, wouldn't I? I could just leave it in the closet, but she'll spend a fortune in therapy unpacking that bad metaphor. The fact is, I have no excuse keeping that kind of garment around for myself-- especially as the mother of a girl. Eventually I'll have little control over what the media tells her she should look like. I won't always be able to police what kind of TV she watches or which magazines she chooses or whether she compares her hair to the other girls in her class. I can, however, work to change how often I trot out my own cloak of shame, actively working to unravel it until it disappears. Or at least turns into a frazzled lump so small it's more like a cat toy.

It's high time I stopped dancing the critical mambo with every picture of my nearly 30-year-old self. I look back at old pictures from high school and wonder what I was complaining about, so I know for a fact that at 85 I'll be ready to lob a grenade back at a me trying to calculate the difference in pounds between a size 8 and a size 10. I'm not going to throw in the towel on trying to be the best version of myself possible, or even promising to stop worrying about jeans sizes. I am, however, trying to have a little grace when I see myself in photos these days. To smile, enjoy the intention behind the picture, and like what I see. Because, really now-- hairshirts are ugly. And who doesn't need more closet space?