I like my body - is this person an alien from another planet???

Yumi Sykes - not an unattractive person (who has a lot of help from television station make up artists before we see her) has "come out" in favour of her body.  She has had more than one child, has some grey hair, and is ACCEPTING of her appearance.  OMG what the hell is wrong with her - we might ask ourselves.  Those of us who find fault with the minutest detail of our body (damn, my elbows are SHIT! comes to mind). Not Yumi.  She's kind of OK with her body.  She ACCEPTS it.

What does that feel like?  What does it mean? well - the question is WHY THE HELL DON'T WE KNOW?  Read this article and think of how distant it might be from your perceptions of your own body and the things you tell yourself about how you appear and who you are.

Yumi Stynes: 'I feel like apologising for not hating my body'

Date

November 10, 2013

Our columnist knows her body isn't "model perfect" – but she likes it just as it is.

"Giving birth for the first time was when I lost my vanity" … Yumi Stynes. Photo: Damian Bennett

I feel like apologising for not hating my body. How stupid is that?! How many women do you know who irrationally detest some part of their physical selves? Five? Fifty? Or maybe every single woman you know?

In our interminable internal monologues, we criticise and berate our too-big arses or flabby tummies as though their very existence shames us. These physical flaws throw into question our intelligence, our maturity, our self-control, because if we had the business of living sorted, if we were actually "professional", we surely wouldn't allow ourselves to have thick thighs!

The other day I was out for lunch with friends and one of them grabbed the spare tyre of chub around her waist and said, "I can't go for a job interview while I'm carrying this gear around!" The other ladies laughed and nodded: this is nothing unusual. Another said, "There's no way I can wear that: big-boned girls look stupid in stripes." Lunch concluded with desserts skipped – by those who didn't deserve it – and goodbyes were shouted among cheerful recriminations over the quantity of beverages and kilojoules consumed.

It never ends. And it starts so early. I knew a girl who couldn't complete her hairdressing apprenticeship because she was so crippled with self-consciousness about how her bottom looked, and all those mirrors gave her nowhere to hide! And what about the girl from my high school who believed she couldn't date until she got her nose done?

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The question is: why are our inner voices such bitches? If someone we knew spoke to us with such judgment and meanness, we'd cut them out of our lives! It's a whole heap of baloney and I'm glad to say I've let it go. I would like to admit here that – deep breath – I quite like my body.

Now let me qualify: it helps to think of your body as a posh car. It can be the most brilliant thing in the world when the engine is humming and the chrome is polished. But it is god-awful when that car is stalled at the lights, the bonnet is up and you're asking strangers for a push. That is an embarrassment. So it's my job to keep up the maintenance of said car. I'm not kidding myself, I know my car is a daggy Prius but – hey – it drives great!

I take care of myself. I eat well, I exercise even when I don't feel like it. And my body does its job. I'm thankful for its healthfulness. I have strong bones, good skin and almost never get sick. And I know that even if I lined myself up against Miranda Kerr and could clearly see that her hair is shinier, her breasts are bigger, her smile more dazzling, I don't mind! I do not mind! Her job is to be more wonderful than the rest of us. My job is to be happy with what I've got and get on with it.

Giving birth for the first time was when I lost my vanity. The birth went okay (aside from the blood and screaming and pain and begging for mercy). The baby came out healthy and I survived the experience, walking out of hospital carrying my own bags two days later.

What changed was that I decided to give my body a break. It had made a baby. It fed the baby. The dehumanising hospital appointments, invasive examinations and the primal experience of actually pushing a baby out made me realise I'm nothing special. I'm just a person – almost an animal! And my body is my body. I'll take the best care of it I can and respect it for what it gives back.

That first daughter turned 11 this year. She is like her dad – tall, skinny and burning energy at a furious metabolic rate. It makes me laugh to see her going through growth spurts. Every few months, for about three days, she eats with the appetite and table manners of an insatiable wild thing. She devours everything in her path. At mealtime the chop bones of the entire family are gnawed for any remaining threads of fat and protein, leftovers are scavenged from plates, litres of milk are guzzled, and before my eyes I see her grow another inch taller. By next year she'll have to look down to meet my eye.

Amid all this I sometimes see her – this beautiful, elegant, willowy young girl – criticise herself, find some fault in her physical appearance, and more and more I think about how important it is that I set the right example for her.

So, Kid, this is me. I'm your mum and I like myself just the way I am.

But those voices can be so loud. If she compares herself to supermodels and pop singers, how do I drown those voices out? If my adult friends haven't managed to silence the self-talk, how will she? With so much pressure to push our bodies closer to "normal" or some idea of "perfect", will I someday have to explain to her why I choose not to dye the grey out of my hair? "Because I can't be bothered. And I don't care that it's a bit grey. I think it looks fine."

Will I someday have to explain why I didn't get around to using Botox? "Because wrinkles are okay. And also: Joan Rivers." And will I one day have to explain why I never bought myself a new set of boobs? "Someone has to have little ones to put all the big ones in perspective!"