The last two weeks or so I have been feeling Old. Capital O
Little l, little d, period. I attributed a lot of it to stress and my schedule
not really allowing for regular daily gym time like I usually make it a point
to have. Last Friday I scooted over in time for a later yoga session and limped
out with electric bright pains all over. This isn’t my norm. I again chalked it
all up to life and old age and set off to work my weekend. Monday I went to a
mellower version of Yoga and still didn’t feel right afterwards so I did
something desperate for me. I booked a massage. It’s rare for me to do this. I
am a single mom who is fairly thrifty and often will spend any mad money
towards the kiddo or the house well before myself. I am not a pain killer
person in general. So I bit the bullet and booked a damn massage.
In general
I am a healer personality, when I am not beating the hell out of a heavy bag.
So massage, spa treatments, hell even a friend giving me a shoulder rub makes
me feel weird. Not bad, or uncomfortable just like the roles should be
reversed. So the massage place begins their rituals of pampering, Juice with
antioxidant shot, warm aromatherapy towel, soothing music, dim lights. And
there I sit feeling like an imposter. Like a member of some Viking horde that
has somehow tricked their way into some delicate realm. I drink my juice, stare
blankly at the towel (where does that go?) and eye the unobtrusive ads touting
facials that make you look like a Disney princess and poisons you can inject
into your skin because apparently you hate it. Needless to say I suck at luxury
and relaxation.
 |
| Guess which one I am. |
Eventually
a very pleasant woman nearer 60 than 50 comes out. She is rangy, with short silver
hair and one of those faces that reminds you of an elf. She grins a mischievous
smile and I instantly like her. She ushers me back and asks me some questions
then walks me through the procedure and leaves so I can get undressed. I slide
between earth tone sheets that have been warmed and lay staring at the ceiling
as ordered. Soon she bustles in and starts working at my shoulder neck and
face. She comes across scars, Bumps and knots and inquires if they are normal
for me. My answers initially are vague.. Yeah.. I injured that. I tore muscles
there.. After a time she lets the silence spin out after my answers which
presses me for more detail. “I got kicked in the back”, “A punch broke my nose”,
“I broke those breaking boards for a demo” and on and on. I explained that I
used to teach martial arts and did compete on a national level. Most of my
injuries came from that but a fair amount came from testing my mortality when I
was younger. “I tore those in a car accident”, “I broke that bungee jumping”, “That
hasn’t been the same since I tumbled off a cliff” She laughs at each one in
delight. At one point she declared me a FEMA project. We talked and in that
discussion I discovered something about myself.
I am proud of my
body.
No it
doesn’t meet a standard idea of beauty. Given my genetics I will never be a
willowy fragile waif. I will always have muscles and be curvy. As women we
CONSTANTLY critique ourselves. The ones who say they never do are lying. No
matter how liberal and liberated you are its pressured on us at an early age to
evaluate ourselves. To change ourselves. As young girls we are taught, not out
of maliciousness but tradition, how to dress to hide our flaws. We are taught
to apply make up to “fix our faces”. How to stand skinnier, suck it in, tuck it
up, how to use your hair to balance the flaws of your face. It’s the terminology
that soaks into our psyches... Broken, unbalanced, wrong, unattractive,
unflattering. That becomes our inner critic and therefore part of our inner
voices. As adults we become aware of these habits but they have been ingrained
from so early that the critic never really shuts up. So as a result we carry
around a list of flaws. I am not going to hit on all this too hard as it’s not
really the reason for this post. But I will someday soon.
 |
| Preview! |
So there
I am laying on a luxe bed having a stranger work on my muscles feeling like a
giant awkward gawky mess when suddenly my brain whispers up. “You have had a
LOT of adventures. Your body has done some amazing things” holy shit. Was that
just positive feedback, brain? It got me thinking. Me and my body despite our
differences have accomplished and survived some pretty god damn amazing things.
I have run races, sword fought, mountain climbed, swam, scuba dived, fought,
flown, bungee jumped, danced, hiked, explored. My body has created life. I have
grown and made my body strong. No it’s not model perfect. And honestly it never
will be because I have muscles and value strength not how emaciated I can
become. I have scars and cellulite and
bulges but in comparison to what my body is capable of doing who fucking cares?
And honestly if that’s someone’s line for appreciating me then fuck em. They
can go swim in the superficial pool with the rest of the twats. That goes for
everyone else. If your body doesn’t fit into Vogues idea of beauty, rip that
fucking book up, light it on fire and roast some damn marshmallows on it.
Then
while you enjoy your s’mores sit your lovely ass down and make a list of all of
the amazing things your body is capable of. Live beyond the smoke and mirrors of
photoshop and lighting. Your body is FUCKING amazing. It’s not a collector’s
item, you only get one. Move, dance, sing, love, wear whatever the hell you
want. You only get one body, it’s time to stop viewing it as the enemy and
start seeing it as a partner in crime.
As I am pondering
all this my elfin friend pipes up quietly as she digs her fingers into my
shoulder joint. “You know, it’s pleasant to work on someone who hasn’t taken
their body for granted and used it like a fragile toy. Yes, you have done some
damage but you have really lived.”
Fuck yeah.
No comments:
Post a Comment