Last September, 2013, Eden Riley (one of the all-time great
bloggers) wrote a post about female body image and her dismay at discovering so
many young girls and women were considering surgery to modify their bodies. You
may want to check Eden’s post out at:
One comment on Eden’s post was from DaisyLolaDot that intrigued
the hell out of me and left me wondering about how I felt about my own body. Well
into my late 40s I imagined the kinds of cosmetic surgery I would
get if I won the big Lotto prize. I have a space in my upper front teeth that I have always disliked and day-dreamed about closing that gap.
One morning at the age of 12 years I woke to find a huge shelf on my chest that
got in the way of EVERYTHING. I longed for a breast reduction that would make
me look normal and stop boys (and later men) constantly wanting to touch them. To make my appearance different I would I have
gladly gone under the surgeon’s knife. I wanted to become a dainty, ethereal
creature instead of the lumpy, peasant looking girl that I was. (It’s just as well because I'm sure K.D. Lang used me as her
inspiration when she wrote that fabulous song about the Big Boned Gal. It would
be a sad world without that song.)
I've been thinking about the issue of cosmetic surgery and
body modification since the post from Eden and am stunned to discover that I now
really, really love this old body of mine. On the surface, my body is in bad
shape. It is morbidly obese, has crippling osteo arthritis and spondylitis, has
needed a hysterectomy, appendectomy, gall bladder removal, numerous operations
on deformed feet, fusion of the cervical spine, two hip replacements, carpal
tunnel surgery, and has allergic reactions to substances too many to list. What
has taken my breath away is the realisation that, in spite of these handicaps,
my body has brought me so much joy.
These feet emerged at birth as clubbed feet and endured endless pain of
straightening physiotherapy, wearing ugly prosthetic footwear that caused such
embarrassment and several operations during my childhood years. Yet these man-sized feet also took me dancing, hiking, potholing, rock climbing and bush
trekking. They carried me thousands of miles to school and work and back. They
helped me carry my babies, shopping bags full of groceries and even furniture
when I moved from place to place. I find I have a great deal of affection for
my feet, even when the bunions throb with pain, or when, because their joints
are fused together, the slightest knock means the toes break, or the ankles
protest another flare up of arthritis. My feet are marvellous because of their
triumph over adversity AND, to me they just look beautiful.
My knees are now swollen, pitted with scars and the
occasional spidery vein. Yet, I find I'm so proud of them!
These knees helped me get around before I could walk. They
have crawled over many surfaces whilst chasing pets, babies, toys and other
treasures. They got scraped when I fell off a bike my younger brother and I
made from bits found at the dump. The scar (on the left in the picture) reminds
me of how exhilarating it was to fly down the street on two wheels but no
brakes. As I went arse-over-tip my knee caught on the open end of the steel
handlebar and gouged out a huge piece of flesh. At age 8 I was so proud of that
wound and it is a scar worth having!
These knees have helped me crawl through and up and down
potholes, assisted me in clinging to sheer cliff faces in the Yorkshire Dales
and the Lake District. They have gripped lovers as passion took our bodies and
minds to the heights of absolute enjoyment. They also gave me something to hang
on to when I pushed my two children into the world.
Now, the patella in my right knee keeps going off the rails.
At random moments it forgets where the rails are and dislocates. This usually
results in me becoming a fully-fledged member of the “Ministry of Silly Walks” (The Monty Python team would be so proud). Alternatively, I
just fall over. Yes, it bloody well hurts, but I get a great pay off from the
looks on people’s faces when it happens in public. Priceless!
Yes, these knees are good knees. They have done, and
continue to do a good job and I wouldn't swap ‘em for quids.
What to say about these oddly shaped hands?
These hands hold every memory of everyone and everything
they touched and left a memory for everyone and everything that touched them.
The exquisite, yet simple pleasure of walking down a street and having the man
I love reach for and hold my hand is priceless. These hands have
provided safety and comfort to my children and grand children plus all the other children who I
have had the pleasure to know.
In my late teens and early twenties I was embarrassed by my
big, man-sized hands. Yet I was grateful for the power they embodied. These hands have traversed many
lovers’ bodies, bringing sweet rapture equally to those I loved and those I
liked. They kept my safe when dangling from ropes halfway up sheer cliff faces
and lifting fallen boulders to clear the way in deep potholes.
Having big hands was a bonus when handling my new born
babies; they were sure, strong and, at the same time, gentle. These hands have
cooked and cleaned, washed and ironed, knitted, sewn and crocheted. They have
turned thousands of pages in books, written and typed thousands of words in
journals, essays, letters, emails, a thesis and even blog posts. They have
planted gardens and veggie patches, stroked and fed dogs, cats, rats, guinea
pigs, mice, rabbits, chickens, ducks, budgies and, yes, even a pet goat.
Now, looking at my hands with their wrinkles, age spots and
crooked fingers I am filled with wonder at what they have done and I rejoice.
I look at my large, wobbly body and wrinkly skin and feel delighted. All
desire for cosmetic surgery has disappeared. I am now thankful for and love this old body. Every wrinkle, every scar, every age spot is testimony to a life lived. A life to be very grateful for and a life in
which I have loved deeply and been deeply loved.
I think it’s time for us as a society to rejoice in our bodies as they age and celebrate bodily milestones. Every BODY is beautiful, including mine.
Now I'm off to plan a party. I will be 68 this year
and I think my body deserves a to celebrate. I hope yours does too.
PS: My 4 year old
granddaughter told me that she loves me being fat because the hugs I give her
are so soft and squishy and she could stay hugging me all day!
