Her hands

I was talking with a friend in the library at school who’s in her 50s, just a little further down the road than me.  She mentioned that she had told her daughter recently how much she hated her hands, how ugly they were.  Until her daughter wisely pointed out how much good they’d done over the years, how they’d been used to make food for her family, to give hugs, to work and to serve.

I was just lounging on our sectional the other afternoon playing with a baby’s tiny soft hands.  So engaging.  So peaceful.  As I let my mind wander, I reflected on that exchange with my friend and juxtaposed it with the baby perfection in front of me.  And considered the marvel our bodies are. 

I think it’s been especially hard the past few years as I approach 50.  Up until the 40s or even mid-40s I didn’t pay that much attention.  But I’m finally understanding what all the fuss is about and I can commiserate.

But I felt how deflating and useless that sort of exercise really is and I switched up my thoughts and reminded myself of all our bodies are capable of and all mine has allowed me to accomplish and experience.

I think of my own hands.  I told my friend I feel the same way, I’ve always sort of hated the way my hands look.  But would I want to be a hand model?  And give up all they’ve been able to do? To maintain smooth, wrinkle-free, manicured fingers?  No contest.

As I was watching this baby, I continued my body tour and obviously ventured to my stomach.  Which was interesting.  Because my French beauty book encouraged us to look at the skin on our abdomens and compare it with that on our faces to illustrate the damage the sun has had on us over the years.  And so I recently did take a little peek at my stomach, honestly something I try rarely to do.  It was of course pure and creamy.  I had a bikini when I was maybe five, but it has never seen the light of day since.  And so my tummy is virgin white. 

And a little squishy.  The sides and top poke out of my pants.  I immediately covered right back up, grateful for an ample shirt to glide over it all.  But as I sat with my little baby friend, I of course recognized the trade off.  And would do it again and again in a heartbeat.  Yes, maybe I could have it all: a house full of babies and a taut tanned stomach.  Lots of women do.  With a lot of conditioning and time and willpower (is that what it is?) or maybe a coach. Maybe just better genetics? Maybe a cook?  But I sighed and reminded myself that I’d given life five times over to precious—oh so precious—loved ones.  A little extra, relaxed muscles from birthing and a c-section, mostly a huge lack of self-discipline all contributing to what we have here.  But how can you even begin to weigh the value of a life?  Would I give any of them up for a beautiful body instead? Would I entertain the thought for even a second?

Well I did.  This is how sick our world is.  My body obviously changed with each baby I nursed.  And with my fifth I was distraught.  I toyed with the idea of not even nursing at all because of how ugly I felt my body was becoming.  Which is so twisted—that our world would have such a pull on me as a woman and a mother that I’d actually consider not nursing so I could maintain even a semblance of what I thought a woman should look like.  I cried over it.  I knew I was sacrificing what was left of my figure.  I knew I would continue to become distorted and grow further from the model of what a woman should be.  And yet I chose anyway.  I’m thankful I was able to nurse all five of my babies—so thankful.  Not every mother can.  Not every woman has that experience.  It was a privilege and a blessing, the closeness, knowing I could provide nutrition for them, helping them with a healthy start, I was in awe of my body and how it knew exactly what each of my babies needed.  I felt like I was teaming up with heaven.  Even as satan was tugging on my heart at the same time.

I continued on up to my face, since I’d just finished that French beauty book, her number one tip being the religious use of sunscreen.  But growing up in the 70s and 80s in San Diego, I didn’t know if sunscreen was even invented.  I remember when I was maybe in elementary school my mom presenting us with a new product: Pre-Sun, a precursor to sunscreen.  We balked but eventually converted.  Eventually we could choose from the number scale: 4, 6, 8, and 15.  I usually tried to stick with 6; who would even buy SPF 15? You’d never get a lick of sun that way.  And so we boogie boarded, swam, laid out, slathered ourselves with tan-promoting products.  I grew up in day care, where we played outside a good part of the day.  My mom certainly didn’t lotion me up each morning as a precautionary measure against future skin cancer and wrinkles.  And so I lived.  With freckles.  And sunburns.  And blisters.  Which have all morphed into wrinkles.  And brown “age” spots.  And permanently sun-damaged skin.  Which all adds years to an already oldish-looking body.

And hair. I can’t believe how fast I turn gray again.  I never knew to appreciate naturally dark hair until I had to start coloring it.

I thought about how tied down I get when I sit or squat in a position too long.  I’m thinking now of my mom’s and sister’s arthritis.  Of my anemia and thyroid issues.  Of Todd’s cyst on his wrist (which makes me think of Dr. Seuss) and his pre-cancer on his face that needs to be treated. And how our bodies are aging against all our wishes.

I look at my teenagers who are simply young and active and fit.  Who can wear anything.  Who never have to worry about what they eat or about wrinkles or even about washing their faces.  I want to warn them that they will become us someday.  And yet will that change anything? Would I want it to?

And here’s what I decided.  (And have to tell myself over and over.)

It’s ok to have wrinkles.  It means I’ve danced in the sun all my life and laughed till my eyes have permanent cracks around them.  

It’s ok to have a little extra around my middle.  It means I had birthday cake.  Lots of times.  It means I ate ice cream with my family all over the country.  It means I had fries and shakes with my dad and with my best of friends and enjoyed every minute of it all.

It’s ok to have hands that would never pass for a model’s.  It means they’ve been busy digging in the garden, changing diapers, making bread, and playing play dough.  They’re cracked and worn and aged.  But only because I’d rather use them than display them.

And no way does any part of my body look like the ladies on my exercise videos.  I keep waiting for their “guaranteed results” to show up, but I just figure they’re young, they eat lettuce, they haven’t had kids, they work out a lot.

And maybe that’s what some choose to do with their time.  But I wonder if we could all just settle down and admit we’re never going to be young again.  Not defeated, just content.  With the lives we’ve lived, with the bodies that have been our instruments that have helped us learn so much, with the scars and remainder marks highlighting all we’ve experienced and been through.  From stretch marks and varicose veins to wiry hair and bony hands, can’t we just laugh and tell ourselves that they are simply souvenirs we picked up along the way to remind us of all our life’s journeys?