Body Image

So Dan and I were watching something on tv about this incredibly IN-SHAPE woman who is training for yet another crazy event – the Ironman, I believe – and coincidentally I have a friend training for the same thing. Go friend! It was a motivating story about one woman’s accomplishments, dreams, ambitions and drive. Most of all her drive, I guess. What drive! To put not only your body through the rigors of exercise, the tiresome schedule of double and triple workouts in a day, but even more so your mind. The resolve – that your brain must (MUST) tell your body to KEEP GOING. Run 15 miles, Bike 75 miles, swim countless laps.
A few years ago I happened to be in Lake Placid, NY during the Ironman and sat with awe on the bleachers at the finish line as old and young, thick and thin crossed the line and sank into smiles and tears. I was crying too. It was so powerful to witness such an accomplishment. 12, 13, 14, 15 hours of grueling physical exercise. There’s a part of me that longs for that kind of achievement; it is ALL YOURS! No one else can claim it. No one can ever take it away, and yet it doesn’t have to define you. It’s just something you’ve done. But a damn fine something.
So the next morning, Dan’s ironing in his undies and says, “I have just one question about that woman on tv last night, does she do anything else but workout???” He proceeds to tell me how, while he was impressed about this and that and goals and achievements, and how the lady is obviously in primo good shape, he was distracted and somewhat disgusted by her mus-kuls. (yes, muscles) Too much working out, he thought, and she doesn’t seem to have anything else going for her. One-dimensional?
And here’s me, just out of the shower picking up and putting down various pants and shirts that don’t fit, too tight, not right. Trying to hide the jagged lines of pregnancy marks that overtake my entire mid-section. The lovely thing is that right after a hot shower, those stretch marks are bright fucking red. Oh I envy the ladies who survive pregnancy unscarred. Because that’s what it is: huge, thick scars across my belly and even above my naval. I had a belly ring in my teens and early twenties, which made that site susceptible to even more stretching, as if the hips and belly weren’t enough!
Dan proceeds to comment most fully on this woman’s chest. No, not her boobs, of which there was little, but her chest muscles. Too much, too masculine, too alarming. Kinda gross. And of course, while my first instinct is to defend women for their right to develop their bodies the same as men, lifting weights and getting strong and definining muscles (sexy muscle tone and all that), I had to agree. It made this woman look like a skeleton in her sleeveless, low-neck top. The bones and muscles popped out at you in such an alarming way.
We proceeded to banter about the facts. She had school-age kids and no job, so she had the day to with as pleased. Motherhood was like this second obligation. I mean, she was caught talking about her physical self, so what do I know about her life behind the camera, but Motherhood just seemed so secondary. In fact, everything seemed secondary. When asked about other interests, she provided a comprehensive list of all things PHYSICAL – hiking, biking, swimming, kayaking, etc. Family was an inner world she visited, or something. There wasn’t one intellectual idea anywhere in her dialogue. One-dimensional, Dan said. Yes, I thought.

And then I thought, “oh honey, it’s little bitty conversations like these which help me see you DO appreciate the me that is the crazy me.” Cause there is no way in hell you could call me one-dimensional. If anything, I am infinity-dimensional. Most of the time I would consider that a bad thing. But in this instance, I was elated. The stretch marks and the 10 extra pounds felt okay in that moment. Valid annoyances for one busy, tired, working mom. If all I had to do all day was work out my body, I would hope that I’d fit back in those jeans I have stored in the attic. Those tiny tees. But I don’t. I have spare time that gets squandered online and eaten up by bill-paying and list-making. Time to rebuild my body should indeed be MORE of a priority, but it just can’t be the only priority. I just don’t have that luxury so I need to work on BALANCE more than anything.

For an instant I was comforted by my saggy tummy. If nothing else, it’s some kind of stupid mark of all that I get done in a day and a week and a month. The stretch marks, however, I could do without. It’s probably the single most embarrassing thing about my body, and when I get out of the shower I still cringe when I take sight of myself in the mirror, feeling poorly that I will forever see myself so scarred and tracked upon.