Ince

Kloe is an extremely physical person: she works out, she walks everywhere, she always takes care of her appearance. The way my/her body feels at rest, at work, drinking coffee with friends, typing on this mac, making love, holding my children--I am hyper-aware of all these things in a physical way. I don’t know if this is an innate part of me, or it was created by all the years of doing plies at the barre and holding/being held by my ballroom dance students. I have come to peace with attributes I used to hate: that my skin won’t tan, than I have freckles and moles and scars, that more and more wrinkles appear each year, that my legs are thick with muscles. What I have never accepted was my weight.
I’ve been obsessed, like many women, with my weight since adolesense. I have almost never been happy with my size, although I have never been fat, even with the 40 pounds/18 kilos I gained during each of my pregnancies. I can appreciate the beauty of a voluptuous woman, whom I enjoy looking at and painting from. But I don’t want to look like or feel like that myself. I’ve never been a big eater; I’d rather have a few bites of caviar to a bag of chips, a small Haagen Daaz to a banana split. But I’ve never thought of myself as thin. Until now.
It astounds me my weight loss in Turkey. When I catch myself in a mirror I cannot recognize myself. I look like my thinnest students who smoke and drink endless cups of coffee. And I have to say it feels amazing to be this thin, like all my limbs are streamlined and I slice the air as I walk down a hallway. I am shocked when a clothing store doesn’t have a size small enough for me. Turkish women often comment on how thin I am, my janitor running her finger on my back and asking, hocam, are you eating enough?
I probably won’t stay this thin. It’s probably a result of this year in Turkey, and the coming normalcy of SoCal will put 20 pounds back on me. I’m not looking forward to it. I’d like to be like my chic slightly older women friends who are thin and have punky haircuts and throw fabulous dinner parties. Shit, that sounds so shallow.
I’m writing this on the bus down to Antalya, where we’ll be staying at a resort with all-you-can-eat buffets. I’m pretty much dreading that part of it.
(This plate was served at a friend’s house to Kid.01 an hour after a big breakfast, as teatime. How Turkish kids are not as big as boats I do not know.)