awellnessworkinprogress.com

I was sick of looking at my shapeless, middle-aged bottom in tight leggings and saggy “loungewear”.

My attire de jour seemed to highlight every unwanted lump and bump and flatten my ageing bottom.

A recent trip to the changing rooms in Next confirmed my worst fears. I stole a glance at my reflection and recoiled at what I saw. I always knew I couldn’t defy gravity forever but did it have to be quite so brutal?

I used to think that going up a dress size (as supposed to defiantly squeezing myself into my existing clothing) or buying clothes to help disguise the things I was most self-conscious about was somehow “giving in”; that even if I was wearing the jeans that promised to lift my bottom, it wouldn’t matter because I would know that, underneath the flattering fabric, my bottom was somehow not “enough”.

I’d insist to myself that, rather than size up, I’d simply lose weight or tone up (as though it was click-of-the-fingers easy) so there was no need to give in to clever marketing: I already had a wardrobe full of clothes that I told myself would look great once I had the perfect bod.

I bemoaned the fact that my irregular visits to the gym didn’t give me the coveted peachy cheeks of a 25 year old fitness influencer – until I realised, I am not a 25 year old fitness influencer and, for the sake of my own mental wellbeing, I should stop consuming content that tells me I should aspire to look like a 25 year old fitness influencer.

On the other hand, I know I could look better than I do. I haven’t had a consistent exercise routine for years and my lifestyle does not reflect the body I so badly covet. I enjoy cake. I have a desk job. I oscillate between high functioning productivity and burnout. At 46 and in the throes of perimenopause, my limbs often feel like they’re wading through treacle. I call off the gym because the thought that I “should” be lifting weights is so off-putting, and opt for draining bouts of cardio because cardio is comforting and familiar and essentially my default setting. It’s slowly dawning on me that the activities I enjoyed and which worked for my physical and wellbeing in my twenties and thirties are precisely what work against me in my perimenopausal forties.

And yet, buying clothes that promise to lift, sculpt, boost or conceal, I have regarded as cheating. Which is exactly what they are. And everyone is at it. I had no idea that most women were wearing padded bras or tummy taming knickers or that floaty tops and skirts were cleverly disguising muffins tops, bingo wings, chunky thighs and swollen calves. Nor did I understand that I, too, was trying to disguise myself – but in a less helpful way.

I ignored the fact that most of my clothes were unflattering and focused instead on comfort. An oversized hoodie allows you to sit at a desk without worrying whether your tummy is spreading like honey across the waistband of your trousers – but it does nothing for your self-confidence.

I saw influencers with tiny bodies going about their day in Oversized everything and I thought it looked cute – but it’s not a look that flatters a 46 year old with a body that’s going steadily south. In my head, I was 25 and looking the part, in my cute oversized hoodies but my reflection told me otherwise: I didn’t look cute. I looked chunky and desperate.

The more you opt for loose-fitting, comfortable clothes, the easier it is to pretend this is just what you wear now; your standards slip until you think it’s acceptable to go out in public, wearing a chocolate-stained hoodie and leggings that highlight your tummy rolls. Something has to happen before you finally acknowledge the truth.

One day, on impulse, I decided to pop into town straight from work. I was in a hurry and couldn’t see the point in changing out the clothes I’d been wearing all day to work from home. They were the very epitome of middle-aged comfort and designed to make me feel even more inconspicuous than I already felt, with the fading flush of youth. My one concession to my appearance was a slap of tinted moisturiser and a swipe of lip gloss and mascara. My hair needed washed and was scraped back in a ponytail that highlighted my expansive forehead. I would say I thought I looked acceptable but truthfully I didn’t stop to consider this at all. This is what I mean when I talk about getting to used to a certain way of being: to dressing in a way that comforts but does not flatter; in a way we think is self care but is more self neglect. I didn’t give my appearance any thought or consideration so I wasn’t giving myself the care or attention I deserve.

I had decided to treat myself to one of those overpriced but delicious acai bowls that are drenched in peanut butter and honey (another example of another “little treat” dressed up as self care but which quietly contributes to accumulating debt and an expanding waistline). As I waited for my order, I noticed a younger man, sitting with his partner. I remember thinking he was attractive (in an entirely non-creepy way) but a little voice in my head was saying, “I know that face, I know that face”.

It hit me a moment later; he was a professional footballer. Not just any professional footballer but one that plays for my favourite team. I immediately transformed into an excitable child confronted with their hero and asked for a selfie. That might have been cringy enough but I then proceeded to blurt out some inane, gushing platitudes that might have been cute if I was a 9 year old boy but weren’t because I’m not!

But worst of all was viewing the selfie for the first time. I was desperate to share it with everybody I knew – if only I could replace my face with a younger, more attractive version of myself. The footballer was the very epitome of fresh-faced Brazilian youth. I looked like what I fear I am: a desperate, dowdy, middle aged woman with lacklustre hair, crow’s feet and chunky thighs.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. I once stumbled across the GB men’s Davis Cup tennis team sipping coffee outside a cafe in Glasgow’s city centre. As an avid tennis fan and Team GB supporter, I was giddy with excitement. I was also woefully unprepared, with just the bare minimum of grooming in evidence. I have yet to perfect the art of selfie taking and this one resulted in the most hideous photo of me never to see the light of the day because I deleted it shortly after viewing: we’re talking massive forehead and multiple chins. The entire Davis Cup Team was blurred out because in my excitement, I’d accidentally switched to Portrait mode on my phone’s camera. I could have cried with disappointment. I momentarily considered going back to ask for another photo but my physical appearance and less than sparkling social skills had shattered my confidence.

People might ask, “why don’t you stop complaining about your appearance and do something about it?” and believe me, I’m trying. But the changes to your face and body that happen during perimenopause are such a shock; some happen so gradually, it’s like they sneak up on you; at other times, it feels like you wake up one morning and everything has collapsed. There’s no definition anywhere. It’s at once shocking and yet it can be easy to block out because, even though the reflection says otherwise, in your head, you’re still in your twenties or thirties. A glimpse in the mirror can literally stop you in your tracks: new lines appear daily; is that a receding hairline? Where did my bottom go? And don’t get me started on the jowls…

My son once took a close-up photo of me when I wasn’t looking, whilst we were sitting on a plane, waiting to take off for our summer holiday. I swear I had so many chins, I actually had none; just a face that seemed to melt into a neck. It was so bad, it actually makes me laugh to remember it – but deep down it did real damage to my self-esteem because I genuinely had no idea that this is what I look like now. Moments like these are more frequent during perimenopause and incredibly humbling.

Once you see yourself – in a changing room mirror or in a bad selfie, you can’t unsee it. When you’re younger, you know you don’t look like a bad photo or if you do, you shake it off more easily because looking good comes so much easier without the wrinkles and the saggy bottom. An unflattering view in a changing room might prompt you to lose weight with relative ease simply because you can.

As mid-life unfolds, the weight doesn’t just fall off the way as soon as you skip carbs at lunch; you can no longer out exercise a bad diet (or even a semi-decent one); there will be lumps and bumps you didn’t sign up for. You need to start making the effort with your appearance instead of hiding behind an oversized hoodie that once you thought was cute.

No longer can you wait for the body of your dreams to manifest itself (without making a stitch of effort) before you start dressing in a way that shows you’re proud of how you look.

You have to focus on the things you can control – a good blow dry, freshly tinted brows, dewy makeup and accessories that make an outfit pop and distract from a prominent tummy.

I always thought the body came first and you wore the clothes to show it off. But now I realise that clothes that fit properly, that flatter, that disguise the things I dislike as well as highlighting the things I do, are the key to looking good. It doesn’t matter so much now that what’s underneath the clothes is less than perfect.

I didn’t realise that clothes could flatter and provide comfort, or that wearing the right things could actually boost my confidence. Or that, with practice, I could start to feel as comfortable wearing a bottom-hugging pair of jeans as I do in my old lounge wear.

I finally “gave in”. I invested in a flattering pair of jeans. I’m cheating my way to a lifted bottom. I finally feel comfortable in my own skin.