My body and I haven't always gotten along. There were decades where we pretty much snubbed each other.
I think it began when I discovered that I couldn't run as fast as my friends or when my softball throw from second base bounced and dribbled its way to first. I was terribly thin and gained the nickname of "Toothpicks" with the boys in sixth grade. And then those horrid teen years came along with their hypercritical evaluations of everything, including how my body hadn't delivered on my pre-puberty expectations. Part of me was too small, another too big. My body had not followed my blueprint for the perfect (according to Seventeen magazine) figure.
After that, my body and I agreed to disagree and we went our separate ways, each of us doing what was required without much thought of the other. The years passed, my husband and I had two beautiful girls. I never even gave my body a pat on the back for that, even though I realize now how hard it worked to figure it all out.
Then in midlife, my body started to rebel, started demanding my attention. Getting out of bed, my back would take a moment to come into alignment, it would squawk as I bent over to get the dog's food. I could sneeze and give myself a stiff neck.
My doctor recommended yoga and I blew her off. But my body became insistent with each new ache or pain. So I reluctantly started classes once a week. The positions were awkward and I didn't like down dog, which the instructor unbelievably called a "resting" pose. I'm not naturally flexible, so while others sat up straight with their legs out in front of them, I sat at 70 degrees. But after a few months I noticed that my body and I were making amends. In my late fifties, I wasn't losing strength, I was gaining it. I started going two, then three times a week and I marveled at my body's progress.
One day I looked at my face in the mirror as I had so many other mornings. But instead of chastising myself for yet another new wrinkle, I saw my body as my friend. I looked deeper into its lines and creases and realized how far we'd come together. I thought about how many miles my body had walked for me, and how many cuts and bruises it had healed over the years without reproach for my carelessness. I was awestruck by how, with no prior experience, it had navigated the intricacies of child bearing and nursing. I was awash with gratitude for hands that could soothe a child and arms that could hug a friend.
So I make this declaration to the world: I LOVE MY FABULOUS BODY!
I think it began when I discovered that I couldn't run as fast as my friends or when my softball throw from second base bounced and dribbled its way to first. I was terribly thin and gained the nickname of "Toothpicks" with the boys in sixth grade. And then those horrid teen years came along with their hypercritical evaluations of everything, including how my body hadn't delivered on my pre-puberty expectations. Part of me was too small, another too big. My body had not followed my blueprint for the perfect (according to Seventeen magazine) figure.
After that, my body and I agreed to disagree and we went our separate ways, each of us doing what was required without much thought of the other. The years passed, my husband and I had two beautiful girls. I never even gave my body a pat on the back for that, even though I realize now how hard it worked to figure it all out.
Then in midlife, my body started to rebel, started demanding my attention. Getting out of bed, my back would take a moment to come into alignment, it would squawk as I bent over to get the dog's food. I could sneeze and give myself a stiff neck.
My doctor recommended yoga and I blew her off. But my body became insistent with each new ache or pain. So I reluctantly started classes once a week. The positions were awkward and I didn't like down dog, which the instructor unbelievably called a "resting" pose. I'm not naturally flexible, so while others sat up straight with their legs out in front of them, I sat at 70 degrees. But after a few months I noticed that my body and I were making amends. In my late fifties, I wasn't losing strength, I was gaining it. I started going two, then three times a week and I marveled at my body's progress.
One day I looked at my face in the mirror as I had so many other mornings. But instead of chastising myself for yet another new wrinkle, I saw my body as my friend. I looked deeper into its lines and creases and realized how far we'd come together. I thought about how many miles my body had walked for me, and how many cuts and bruises it had healed over the years without reproach for my carelessness. I was awestruck by how, with no prior experience, it had navigated the intricacies of child bearing and nursing. I was awash with gratitude for hands that could soothe a child and arms that could hug a friend.
So I make this declaration to the world: I LOVE MY FABULOUS BODY!
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