Body talk

I’m noticing it more and more these days. Whenever I fold my arms and hug myself, I sense there’s more to hang on to than before, a little more cushion. I’ve been growing steadily over the past nine years. I wonder if it’s age, Tamoxifen, menopause, or a few too many cookies. I wonder if this trajectory will ever taper off or if my body’s decided to gear up for the winter years of my life. I get weighed twice a year, when I go in for my oncology appointments. I also determine how I’m doing as I transition between seasons, do my shorts still fit? Jeans?

And here’s what happens if they don’t. I toss them. I don’t need any more negativity in my life. I don’t want to hassle with the emotions associated with clothes that are clearly not meant for me anymore. I’ve had to donate skirts I’d always worn because the zippers don’t close anymore. (Although I have two dresses I keep even though they don’t zip up; I just wear a jacket over them.) I gave away a new-to-me pair of white summer pants because the zipper wouldn’t stay shut over my soft belly. And I’ve definitely stripped my closet of tops that cling and are a struggle to wiggle into. Gone. I’m left with soft billowing blouses, sweaters that glide and hide, forgiving flannels, and bathing suits with gathers and a little extra flow.

I was garage saling with a friend and we were looking at tops. She said it, “I’m so sick of worrying about my weight.” She’s been up and down over the years like everyone else I know and it’s a constant source of angst and stress. I couldn’t agree more.

Except I don’t. Stress about it. Of course I’d love to be the same weight as I was 9 years ago, which is the same I’d always been since I even noticed weight to be a thing back in high school. Because then I wouldn’t have to decide if my clothes are going to fit or not. But who cares? I’m serious. Who cares one whit if my belly is a little softer than it used to be, if I’m a little squishier, what kinds of clothes I wear, what size pants I’m in, or what the arbitrary number on a little scale dial says? No. One. Not my friends, not my kids, and not even Todd.

I’m down for a Blizzard when Todd and I are on our Thursday dates. We’ll go for ice cream as a family in small neighboring towns several times over the course of the summer. And I’ll have a bowl of vanilla with hot fudge and banana right alongside them every Sunday night. I’ll eat salad and broccoli with my grilled chicken and potatoes. I’ll have a snack if I’m hungry, a bowl of cereal if needed after working in the yard. I take a walk or two with Todd every day. I lift weights. I work out like I have ever since I was 15. I work in the gardens and yard for hours every day. I don’t sit too much. I stretch before bed. I sleep plenty and take a nap if I need it, I drink water. I take my vitamins. I cook from scratch. We eat a plethora of fruits and vegetables, and the only thing I ever check on labels is fiber. I’m not doing anything else. That’s enough. And I’m just going to let the chips fall.

Because here’s what matters.

I’m here. I’m present. I’m not distracted by body talk except to be amazed by what they can do. I don’t care what anyone looks like or what shape they are or what size their clothes are. Why would I? Why would anyone? No one has ever, ever asked me what size I wear or mentioned that I’ve gained or lost weight or even about my eating habits. No. One. Cares.

But here’s why I want to be healthy, and thankfully I see this view touted more and more these days. I want to be around for a long, long time. I want to hike with my kids and grandkids. I want to be strong enough to pull out the thick, tough weeds. Todd needs my help moving boxes of tile and flooring and bees. I want my heart to stay pumping for me forever. I want my innards to have what they need to do their jobs. I want my body to be able to ward off problems and to heal quickly if the need arises. I want to walk five miles without breaking a sweat. I want to touch my toes and play pickleball and yard games with my family and friends. I want to be able to run after a lost ball and not have to sit out the next round. I want to be outside in the freshness and the sounds. I want to shovel snow and gravel and rock. I want to stack wood and have stamina that allows me to work and move and serve all day long if needed. I want a sharp brain, a clear mind, that’s not cluttered with details about numbers on a tag or in a food or what the newest fad in eating is. I want to eat real food that we’ve grown or made here at home so I know what it’s about. I want to have energy to make meals and treats and snacks for anyone who wanders in. I want to go to bed plumb tuckered out from a full day of using my incredible body for good.

I don’t have time to wallow in the fact that there’s a little more to love these days. I wish I knew what changed suddenly after years of being the same, but it’s more of a flitting curiosity than an obsession or concern. Because, like I said, I’m not likely going to give up Costco birthday cake, chocolate chip cookies right from the oven, popcorn on Sunday nights, a hamburger on the way home from boating, or a popsicle on the back deck on a warm summer evening. Those are tiny slivers of joy that I choose to keep. I know there’s talk about social eating, that it’s maybe not good. I disagree. I think it’s very, very good. Food unites and connects, and while I believe our bodies love it when we make efforts to take care of them, I’m all for a little treat here and there.

But we don’t need to talk about it. We don’t need to mention the calories we’re consuming or make comments about how we’ll need to work out more tomorrow to make up for it. We don’t need to be concerned about what diets our friends are on or what they’re doing now to lose weight. We just eat what’s good for us, we have a little treat every now and then, we move in ways that work for our schedules and lives, we do what we can to be our healthiest selves and carry on.

I’ve seen the most amazing stories of people with all kinds of bodies. One pregnant woman had a regular long leg and a tiny short one half the size. Another mother had no arms and it was inspiring to see how she managed the daily tasks of feeding and tending to her baby with her feet. We’ve read of the blind climbing Mount Everest and the man with no arms and no legs who surfs and plays soccer. Our bodies can DO incredible things. That’s what we should be in awe of, not how they look in a dress or bathing suit, but how crazy that they can push the limits, that they can do so many different things, that they heal, that they can create and learn and absorb so much. So yes, we should esteem our bodies. But not for how they look, but for what they can do.

In today’s world even I, a nondescript middle-aged mom, can get sucked right into the nonsense of it all. It’s brutal. Paraded in my feeds are women older and younger than me touting all sorts of lifestyles and habits and routines and products that will improve my everything from shape to skin. At my age though, I can see through the smoke; I’ve lived long enough to know what matters, and yet I STILL get ruffled every now and then when I’m not thinking straight. In talking with a college friend, I realized that even chatter about bodies can be detrimental and stress-inducing, even subconsciously. She believes there is just no need to mention anything about the looks of a person’s body. I’ve thought about this the past several weeks and agree.

I was telling my son just yesterday over lunch that that’s one thing I loved so much about my parents. They just did life. I don’t remember even one time my mom mentioning her body and how it looked, a diet, calories, anything like that. My parents never, ever talked about my sisters and me and our bodies or what we were eating, sizes, growing, shapes, anything. It was simply not part of our home life, and it’s only now that I’m realizing what a blessing that was for young, impressionable girls. And the effect of that background is still with us in that we’re largely uninfluenced by the advertising trends and admonitions of our looks-focused culture. I’m so grateful for this unintentional parenting win. Although today it is much harder to avoid, we as parents and adult mentors have much sway through our examples of what we value and what we say and don’t say.

I know it’s tricky to live in a time when there’s so much hype about bodies and the way they look. But I also know we are our children’s foremost influencers, at least setting the foundation for what they will believe and choose to value. Let it be what be matters. Let’s be healthy, our best versions of ourselves. Let’s of course take care of our bodies, our souls, our minds, yes, for sure. But let’s not obsess about numbers and shapes. Let’s love our bodies, be grateful for them, cherish them. But let’s not allow ourselves to fret about the details, the outsides, the appearances, and all that can change in an instant; we have so much more to share with the world than what we look like; we were born to use our bodies for good, and our time is limited and valuable. This pep talk is as much for me as anyone, I told you I’m right here in the middle of it all too. But we know better. Our heads really do recognize the lies, the deceit, the marketing, the industry intentions. I just think they’ve had their day. It’s time for us to be more than just veneer and to defend the truth of a person’s worth. But it has to start with us accepting ourselves right where we are and using whatever resources we have, including our bodies and all they can do, to establish and promote natural, original, and authentic beauty in all its forms.