Yes. It’s official. I’m addicted to blogging. I’m trying to make it take the place of chocolate because if my hips get much bigger, I’m going to feel like I should start birthin’ again.
I honestly don’t know how to transition from that sentence. The only way to do it is awkwardly…
Sooooo….I’ve been thinking about bodies. Yep. Bodies. Mostly, I’ve been thinking about my own body. I’m turning 37 this month (turning, the way that milk curdles) and I’m trying to be okay with that. For the most part I am. I’ve been struggling with my weight though. I can blame my broken foot and that running hurts now, but I also have to blame ice cream, and chips, and delicious sandwiches. But then I wonder, okay, at almost 37, I’m still in pretty good shape. I’m a size 10 and that’s respectable. I have curves. Lots of curves. But they’re in the right places. So what am I complaining about?
Then the next question is “When am I going to let myself be happy with who I am?” How many books do I write? How many accolades do I need before I allow myself to say, look, you’re who you are, curves and all, and it’s okay.
So I’ve been staring at bodies. Young bodies. Old. Chubby ones. Lean ones. Hard ones. Soft ones. And it occurs to me that not one person has a perfect body. And if you see a picture of a perfect body, it’s been airbrushed. We are not perfect, people. Perfection is creepy.
I’ll tell you a secret about my body. Very possibly this will fall under the TMI heading. If you’re a chick, you’ll probably get it. You might even get it if you’re a dude. But my body has changed. A lot. I used to have these tiny little perky breasts. Breasts so firm you could bounce quarters from them. And I did. Breasts so pert, you couldn’t tuck a pencil under them. I can now hold a stapler. My nipples have expanded. That’s right. NIPPLES. I have a soft tummy. I have tiny stretch marks on my thighs. I have a recurring hair on my chin that if I don’t pluck, threatens to look like the root of an orchid. I dye my hair. If I don’t suck in, I could pass for being sorta pregnant.
This is the truth. While I’m not entirely okay with this, I’m trying. I’ve been looking at myself a lot lately. Sometimes, I even like what I see. If I stare long enough, I’ll also see that I look womanly. I look sexy. I have eyes so blue I can sometimes feel them flash. And even though my body is changing, my spirit isn’t. Actually, it is. But it’s getting better. I’m more passionate with age. I’m more understanding. I have good legs. By god, I’m a bottle of wine!
Bad metaphor, because it might sound like an invitation for someone to drink me.
On second thought, that’s a good metaphor.
What I’m saying here, people, is that I’m flawed. Deeply flawed. And you know…no one else is flawed in exactly the way I am. And there’s something beautiful about that.
And you, whoever you are reading this, I bet you’re all kind of beautiful too in your own delicious weirdness.
This is what age does to a woman. It makes her love herself. Let me rephrase that. It makes me love who I am, curves, hair, healing foot and all.