Bodies...


Do you ever see girls walking along the street pulling and tugging at their revealing clothes, trying to get the fabric to cover a half an inch more of flesh? What seems comfortable in the privacy of a dressing-room mirror becomes self-conscious in the public of a busy roadway. It's really not a difficult concept--you shouldn't wear clothes that make you feel uncomfortable. But they are in style they will say. Screw style. One problem for me regarding clothes is that my legs are so long it is difficult to find a pair of shorts that suit me-- either I feel like they show way too much thigh or else I look like a golfer. I like to wear shorts too, but there are some times when I think to myself, "This is utterly ridiculous. I don't have the body for this. I don't feel particularly comfortable letting 3/4 of the population stare at the skin right below my fat ass." I can feel them doing it, and it pisses me off.

Men do not have to go through this. I was behind a guy today, walking to class, and his baggy and comfortable pants looked fashionably cool while covering all of his legs except for half of his hairy calf. I laughed to myself as I imagined the world where we are all equal--where men struggle in a sea of too-tight, too-short clothing, a world where men are faced with choices that make them feel only fat or fatter.

I also entertain myself with thoughts of how the world would be if we were all nudists. I think that would be a healthy dose of reality. I envision a warm tropical climate, everyone has a healthy tan, are bodies are all glowing and radiant. Okay, wait, I've seen too many bacardi commercials. Still, even with our pale obese bodies flapping around in the wind, I think it would be a great dose of health to see that. To know what bodies really look like underneath the clothes. To know that only .00145 percent of the population have that "perfect" body. To be aware of ourselves in a way that we don't have to be right now. Maybe we'd get over out weird sexual obsessions while we were at it--a breast would no longer be a contraband item, a penis no longer an obscenity. We would be like the tribesmen on PBS specials, who don't stop to stare at boobs or balls. Maybe we'd even become healthier because we'd get sick of looking at our bodies being less than what they were made to be. And most importantly, clothes would stop defining us, and we wouldn't be able to hide from ourselves any longer.


Sometimes my laziness regarding my body scares me. I treat it like I treat my car--get me here, take me there--I don't care how it looks or if it's nice and shiny with a new tan paint job or freshly waxed. Give it good fuel and an ocassional check-up. My body is a good and reliable vehicle--but in regard to classes of vehicles, it's not much else. Perhaps at one point it had the potential to be a top-of-the-line offroad SUV with amazing horsepower and 4-wheel drive, but now it's just an outdated model that is not worth sporting up. It is what it is. I am what I am. I am trying to be okay with that.


I remember when I was unaware of my body. Legs and arms were just there, for playing, for running, for jumping and hanging. It was much easier to do these things before I grew and developed another 70 lbs that seem to have distributed unproportionally. I can barely hang from a bar these days. Monkey bars are truly a challenge. I feal weak. I feel disappointed.

When I was unaware of my body, I did not judge it. I still try not to, because it will only make me upset no matter how close to perfect I become. See--I just said "how close to perfect I become " instead of "how close to perfect it becomes." If I don't pay attention, my body becomes a reflection of my inner self, when really it is not so much that. I could be in anybody's body. What's disturbing about this thought is that the more I think about it, the more I realize my life would be different if I were in a different body.

If I were the most beautiful woman on earth, would I be so wrapped up in maintaining that title that I forget more important things? Would I be utterly lonely among people who only cared about my outer beauty? Would I be a snob who only surrounded myself with similarly beautiful people? Would I be rich? Would I own my own tropical island and yacht? Would my secret desire to be an actress be easily fulfilled because everyone would want me in their films? Would I win an oscar? Would the mundane concerns of the world sit under my feet as I stand on my pedestal of success and security?

If I were the ugliest woman on earth, would I have more compassion? Would I absolve myself of all vanity and material things, devoting my life to helping others? Would I not own a mirror? Would I commit suicide? Would I be a virgin and choose to marry God instead of a man? Would I find that true love has nothing to do with outward appearances? Would I cry at night because people are so mean to me and treat me like an animal?


I drove past the gym late last night. The lights were on and skinny, tanned, beautiful people were running on treadmills and sweating out their devotion to the rythm of their headphones. For a second, I wanted to be there too, making myself more perfect.

Then I decided that I don't have time for that, and me and my beat-up car made it home where I picked up Issac from the babysitter and tucked him into bed. I inspected and rubbed my body and then I hugged it and thanked it for staying healthy. My body and I have a good relationship--I try to let it know how I feel on a regular basis. I told my body that it was okay that it is not perfect, that it doesn't have to be. My body will be perfect for me and for someone else someday, and that's all that matters. It was perfect when it held Issac and it was perfect when it kicked the winning goal for the 3-A district Soccer championship in 1998. It is perfect when it feels like dancing and stretching and laughing and crying. It will be perfect when it is covered in wrinkles and my skin is paper-thin. My body sighed and said "Thank you for understanding." And I slept well last night.