Skinny Jeans

One year ago, as I was preparing to leave for Uganda, I distinctly remember guffawing at other people’s packing concerns, “Why is someone bringing a blow dryer?  I don’t need to look cute.  I’m going to Africa, and my boyfriend’s staying in America.  I just need practical clothes.”  Ten months later… I’m kicking myself.

I’ll admit my thinking is relatively logical for a shorter trip, but I’m not camping for two years!  Why do most Peace Corps Volunteers succumb to this expectation?  I’m living here for two years.  I thought that I wouldn’t mind looking frumpy and hiking-ready for two years.  Despite my change in heart, I still have no one to impress.  Most of the people in my village always think I look “smart” (British for looking good or put together).  My boyfriend’s still in America, and thankfully doesn’t have to see my mismatching outfits.  So, what’s the deal?  I’ve realized that I need to look good for me.

In college, I had a very simple rule.  No wearing sweatpants to class.  So everyday, I forced myself to throw on a pair of jeans, a sundress, a skirt, whatever.  Anything but sweatpants.  In sweatpants, I didn’t take class seriously.  I would usually snuggle up in my seat, and prepare for a 50-minute nap instead of note taking.  On days when I felt really lazy and resentful that my major required me to take a 9 am class, I would add some make up just to make me feel more put together.  From college, I learned that the better I felt about my appearance, the better I felt overall.

So, how did I forget these lessons when I joined Peace Corps?

Sadly, there are a lot of things about my appearance that I have had to come to terms with.  First, I had to admit that, yes, even though I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer, I don’t want to look homeless.  I always thought that I’d be rugged and dirty, and that I’d be totally ok with it.  False.  Most of the changes were immediate: now I wear glasses instead of contacts, I chopped about ten inches off my hair, I constantly look greasy from sunscreen overdose, my clothes aren’t fitted, my shoes are clunky, my nails are unpainted, even my panties aren’t colorful!  God, I know all of this sounds so petty, but it took me a very long to get used to the new me.  In training, when I passed by a mirror, I didn’t recognize my own reflection. 

All of those things took a few months to get over.  Now, I’ve gotten used to the glasses business.  I know that contacts would be a pain in the you-know-where.  My hair grows like a weed, and it’s almost back to its original length!  It’s still bluntly cut and a little uneven, but I finally don’t need ten bobby pins to keep it in a ponytail.  I’m still a little greasy from sunscreen, but at least I can throw some powder on top of it if I’m around other Americans.  I’d prefer greasy to crows feet at 25.  My mom helped me solve the rest.  Thankfully, she doesn’t bat an eyelash if I ask her to send me fun dresses and pink poka dotted panties.

However, there’s a nasty well-kept Peace Corps secret: men lose weight, but women gain weight.  During training, the staff and more senior volunteers tried to warn us, but no one really could accept it.  How could women gain weight in Africa?  Unfortunately, it’s true in many cases.  After our first few months at site, the boys were slashing new belt holes to keep their pants up, while the girls complained about not being able to button their pants!  Often, when weight was brought up among our group, it became a battle of the sexes arguing about which was worse, gaining or losing weight.  No one can say for sure why this happens, but I’ve got a few ideas.

1.     Especially at the beginning of our service, you’re trying to fit into the community, which means following community expectations.  In Uganda, it’s pretty rude to turn down food.  There have been times when I’ve just finished my very filling breakfast of oatmeal, and I am given an oily chappati only moments after arriving at school.  In order to do the polite thing, I would wolf it down and feel sick for the next few hours.

2.     Ugandan food is 70% starches, 20% fat and 10% protein.  Now, I’m not sure if those are exact statistics, but that’s how it feels.  It’s really common to have two or three starches in a meal, and a meager source of protein.  I still don’t understand male vs female metabolism, but I feel like men just torch through these simple carbs and women hang onto them.

3.     When we’re not being force feed Ugandan food, we’re cooking at home.  I hate to be stereotypical, but in general, women know how to cook and men struggle a bit.  In order to fill up the day and drown our stress, a lot of female volunteers throw themselves into cooking and baking.  One volunteer said that she spends about four hours a day cooking!

4.     Once we discovered the “western” restaurants in our closest towns, we all tended to gorge and feast.  Even though we went every weekend, there was always this panicky feeling that we may never have another chance to have a milkshake or pizza.  A lot of the time, the food wasn’t even that good, but it didn’t matter.  It vaguely tasted like home, so you ate every last bite.

5.     On these weekend adventures, we tended to egg each other on.  It was a horrible group mentality, which still exists.  If your friend orders another coke float, you don’t feel so bad about your extra plate of French fries.

6.     Unfortunately, we don’t have a village gym.  Although most volunteers do a lot of walking, it’s nothing compared to how much time we used to spend pumping iron, busting out killer dance moves at Zumba or pounding pavement every day.  It’s very difficult to be motivated to work out here.  Either you’re going to work out by yourself at home, doing god knows what, or you’re going to brave running.  Running is a very bizarre idea in the village.  Why would you run if you could dig?  People laugh and point while children run after you, sometimes with sticks.

To make matters worse, Ugandans have a very different perception of weight.  Ugandans consider “being fat” means you have status or wealth to afford a lot of food.  If someone says, “Eh, you’ve reduced,” it’s actually a fairly serious insult.  Therefore, especially among people in the village, having curves for a woman is a very good thing.  The ultimate compliment: “Eh, you’ve really gotten fat this way.”  Great.  As if I wasn’t already feeling self-conscious.

In America, we don’t talk about weight.   And one year ago, I couldn’t imagine broadcasting to the world my insecurities, but I guess I’ve changed.  It has taken me months to get the courage to write this blog, but I finally feel ready.

In my first three months at site, I gained at least ten if not fifteen pounds.  I was devastated.  In Newport, I went to the gym six times per week, ate the super healthy Greek yogurt and weighed myself every morning.  Suddenly, I was drinking full calorie soda almost every day, I couldn’t wake up early enough to go running and I pigged out with my friends on the weekends.  And it became a vicious cycle.  The more horrible I felt about myself, the more I wanted to eat and sleep.  All of my frumpy, stretchy clothes still fit, but my skinny jeans laughed at my attempts to pull them over my hips.  My closest friend and I would make new diet and workout plans every Sunday after our banana chocolate chip pancake feast, but nothing changed.  Although it's really pathetic, I'll admit that I had at least one or two... or three.. good sob fests about my weight gain.

Is it terrible to say that my turn around was a direct result of giardia?  After getting deathly ill three months ago, I instantly lost at least five pounds.  For weeks, my appetite was non-existent.  I had to force myself to eat yogurt, hard boil eggs, oranges and bananas- about the only things my stomach could handle.  When I finally recovered, I realized that hey, I feel a lot better about myself. Giardia jump-started my new way of life.  I stopped feeling guilty about politely declining food that I didn’t want.  As awkward as it was, most people didn’t really care.  I stopped using three tablespoons of oil to make popcorn.  I stopped eating peanut butter straight from the jar.  I stopped gorging on the weekends.  Mbale will always be there.  Why can’t I just get one treat instead of five?  And I finally discovered the joy of running in the evenings, not at the crack of dawn.  Who cares if people laugh at me?  I actually started challenging the young men that were giving me a hard time.  Ends up I can out sprint most of them.  Everyone leaves me alone for the most part now.  My knees can only take so much running, so to supplement my runs, I’ve started working out at home.  Yoga never felt like a real workout- sorry yogis!  Now, I combine yoga, dance, kickboxing and strength training moves to create an hour-long sweat drenched, cardio boosting and stress relieving session.

Finally, I feel like myself.

Last weekend in Kampala, I slipped into my skinny jeans for the first time in ten months.  I can’t describe how good it felt to finally look and feel American.  Jeans must be so deeply ingrained in my self-image that I couldn’t shake their power.  Wearing those jeans made me feel feminine, ironically.  For the first time in country, I felt beautiful.  I felt like Chelsea, pre-Peace Corps.

I hope that I can keep up with my new commitment to health and sanity.  Although I never thought my weight would be an issue in Peace Corps, I know now that feeling good about my body is a key element to my self-esteem and happiness. 

In celebration of running again, I’ll be participating in the Kampala half marathon on Sunday.  I have no intention to make good time, I only hope to finish!  Stay tuned: I'll let you know how it goes!  Only five more days of training.