Many moons ago there was a photography exhibit at the Saw Gallery in which women posed with their bodies. So simple, and not so simple. We are our bodies. We own them. Yet these photos represented several disjointed and faceless parts of women’s bodies: hands, feet, squished bo0bs and bellies. Were they body parts the women had issues with? I can’t remember, but I do recall feeling a mild degree of shock and revulsion. Ew. Cellulite!
At the time of viewing this photo exhibit I was sporting the best abs of my life. I was at Carleton U., in the midst of my journalism studies. I biked and walked everywhere. When I was at the gym I’d run on the stairmaster for 20 minutes, do a full workout, and return to the stairmaster for a second turn. Yes, really!
I got my naval pierced sometime in my fourth year. Why? Well, because I liked it and it was easier than a tattoo. It was WAY before all the cool kids started to do it. When I was pregnant I neglected to remove the ring, not realizing that as the belly expanded it would also create a big permanent rippling wrinkly stretch-mark. And now it looks awful because there is a wrinkle there, one that could have been prevented had I not been so freakin’ vain.
I had it re-pierced a few years ago, a mini-celebration of me and what my middle have gone through. And I still have it all – the wrinkle, the marks, the ring and the jigglies. In this past year my weight has mysteriously shifted downward. Whassup with that? As a result 8 out of 10 pants are not fitting me very well right now.
But I’m fighting it. I’ve been power-walking like no one’s business, even sprinting a block here and there. It’s five pounds people. Five pounds around my equator that needs taking care of. That’s it.
In the meantime I’ve figured something out about myself. How I feel on any given day (about me, my weight, etc.) is directly proportional to what I’m wearing. If I’m wearing pants I despise because they make me look like a pear, and I subconsciously don a crappy t-shirt, I almost certainly will feel lousy and berate myself for the extra poundage. If I’m wearing jeans I like, paired with a kickin’ little top, I feel great, because I look great.
But at this moment I feel like a shlump. And I’m not afraid to admit I did 50 jumping jacks while I waited for my tea to steep.
I’m meeting Dani at Starbucks tonight. I hope she steers me away from the baked goods.
