Thoughts on My Body

When I look at my body, like I did this morning, I have a kind of fondness and sadness for it. Well, and an interest in it too.

 

*There was a time when I was terrified of the changes in it. That would have been puberty/teen years.

T*here was a time when I reveled in the changes in it. That would have been 20s and 30s when I was in my athletic peak.

*There was a time when I marveled at it. That would have been my 40s and early 50s when my body began another set of changes. They were pretty minimal though.

*There was a time when I was horrified of it. That would have been mid 50s to 57, when I became so obese.

There was a time when I was ashamed of my body. That would have been all my life, until about 3 years ago.

*Now is the time when I am most interested in it. My body is moving ever quicker into more changes. These changes are a deterioration of a sort. Somebody, a female writer, but I can’t recall who, said something about watching her body rot. Ick! I’m not thinking that way.

 

It is interesting to note the changes that are happening to my skin, musculature, joints. I have moments of melancholy for the body I used to have.

 

By that I mean, when my muscles used to slide effortlessly across one another. When my skin was darkly tanned from summer days spent in the field and on softball diamonds. When I was physically very strong. When I could sling bales into the barn and hit screaming line drives to the outfield walls. When throwing a hissing fastball to first to nip the runner by a step was second nature. I loved those moments. I loved the feel of playing.

 

I loved having trained my body until instinct took over and I just made plays. I loved being so good at it. I loved winning awards and patches. I loved that the opponents knew that they were in trouble when I came to bat. I loved that no one ever expected me to make an error. I loved feeling at home and known on the field.

 

I am grateful to have those fond memories. I am grateful to be able to smell the dirt and sand of the infield. I am grateful that I can see the dust rise gently, the sun beating down, the seeds of the cottonwood trees drifting over the field. There is so much to hear: Feet beating around the base paths, sliding across a base, sliding to a stop, skidding to catch the hit. Ball in mitt: Pop, slap, smack, thud. Bat connecting with ball: Bong The deep and solid sound of a good hit, the skrip of a pop up, skritch of a beaten down grounder, light thop of a bunt. The yelling – Two! Two! Two! I’ve got it! Mine! Fire one in there baby! Way to go, way to go! Run, run!

 

That is all good. Now is very different, but not in a bad way, just in a different way.

 

Now I love my body more than ever before. I have learned to pay attention to it. I have learned to appreciate it. I have learned to understand it and be grateful for it.

 

The arthritis is showing in my hands, in my knuckles especially. Mom always told me to stop cracking my knuckles! Sort of a sweet memory, but didn’t cause arthritis. Mom and Gramma and Great-Gramma did that. But my hands still look great, except for those moments when I notice just right, and realize my hands are starting to look like mom’s did in her 50s-60s. Argh. That’s kind of a shock. I have to remind myself that just because our hands are looking similar doesn’t mean I am just like her. I am like her in some ways, and not in others.

 

I have a significant amount of extra skin due to weight loss, but I’m curious about how my skin would be looking now if I didn’t have the extra. How saggy would it be? I don’t know, and guess I never will. Okay, guess I’ll have to live with that. Oh well.

 

I notice the skin on my neck, my arms, my legs. My butt! Hmmm. I understand how this body has fought for me, enabled me, freed me, for nearly six decades now. That is pretty impressive. I can still walk, run, ride bike, shoot baskets, whack a racquet ball. That’s all good. I can get into and out of chairs. I’m okay.

 

This body had done so much! Learning to walk, with all the attendant falling on my butt. Surviving horrendous abuse from a sadly crazy father. Being strong and capable still. I can carry a 50 lbs bag of potting soil – just barely.

 

 

Yeah, this body has done well. I am grateful for it. Never would have thought, even 10 years ago, that I would ever say that. I will be grateful for the rest of my life to the ones who taught me that my body is not the enemy. In fact, my body is more than a good thing. It is my best friend.

 

I love being able to say that. I am a very fortunate woman.