I am a magazine fanatic. I get so many each month that I can't keep up with them. By the time that I finish reading all of the magazines from January, I'm getting them for March. Well I'm glad that I took the time to read my Glamour.
It had a great article in it by Iman's eldest daughter Zulekha. Zulekha spoke about her battle with weight and her decision to have weight loss surgery. And in case your sitting there scratching your head, yes, that would be supermodel, cosmetic mogul Iman. Zulekha's dad was Imans first husband, basketball star Spencer Haywood.
Most of us have gone through body issues at some point in our lives. But I can't imagine how hard that must be when your mother is a supermodel, your dad is a basketball star, and your step-dad is a rock star. That pressure has to be unbearable. I applaud her tenacity and her desire to find her own way. I feel like she was re-living this while she was writing because I felt like I was walking down this road with her while I was reading it.
People tend to judge those who decide on surgery so harshly, but to each his own. Sometimes you get to the point where you need that to start over and that has to be a tough decision.
I've never had to go to these extremes to hide my insecurities, but i've had to do a cover here and there, so I could relate. Below is one of the portions of the story that I found most gripping.
I awoke the morning of my twenty-eighth birthday determined to make it my most fabulous year yet. Tonight, I thought, I’m painting the town red in that slinky cap-sleeve number that shows off my décolletage. I opened a birthday card from my ex-boyfriend Eric,* who had remained a close friend. Inside was a top-five list of why I was the most wonderful woman he knows. Number three: “Because you always let me shower first—in case the hot water’s tricky.” When Eric used to spend the night, I’d tell him to shower while I made the bed and put on coffee. “The hot water’s tricky sometimes,” I’d assure him, flashing him a smile.
But the plumbing in my building was fine. The truth: At 330 pounds, I had developed heel spurs and swollen knees that made it excruciatingly painful to stand up after lying down for eight hours, so getting out of bed was always an orchestrated event. I’d send any man who slept over off to shower, and once the coast was clear, I’d swing my legs out and put my feet on the ground gingerly, allowing the blood to return to my feet and legs. After a minute, I could stand. After another minute, I was comfortable enough to start walking.
Reading Eric’s card was a powerful reminder that, while I’d done my very best to love my super-plus-size body, I couldn’t keep lying to myself or anyone else. The physical pain I’d endured in my twenties could not continue into my thirties. I had to lose weight.
But how? I have more or less been on a diet since I was eight years old. None of them worked. An overweight kid and already dining for sport, my first was the “Basta” diet. At home, my mother, Iman, a beauty icon and devotee of clean eating, would whisper basta (“enough” in Italian) when I was in danger of overeating. The choice was always mine, and I usually put down the fork. But I also got hip to late-night snacking, raiding the refrigerator and cupboards after midnight. At school I routinely traded lunches, and when I was old enough to buy my own, I would pass over apples for Hostess Apple Pies. We always had plenty of nutritious snacks at home, but there was nothing more satisfying than savoring a secret Twinkie that I exchanged homework answers for. In the end, all I learned from basta was how to make PB&J in the dark.
You can read the full article here at Glamours site