a touchstone of flesh

I have a shameful confession ... I kind of hate my body. Still. I know I'm not supposed to, and lots of times I don't - I'm sometimes quite proud of myself. I mean, I weigh not much more than I did when I graduated high school. Less than I did when, at the ripe old age of 20, I walked down the aisle. Considerably less than my nemesis for decades - the deuce. I am buying clothes two sizes smaller than I did a year ago. Dresses with built in waists and princess seams and curves and dangerous corners. I am buying shoes a size smaller - less weight means less foot spread. And also less foot fat. As I've mentioned, my Calvin Kleins, clung to for a decade while I yearned for them to fit again, have been released, the saggy ass and baggy thighs proof of some win ... a win that seems remote tonight. 

But, there are moments when I rest my hand against a certain body part, or bend a certain way, or when Sweetness holds me that I cringe and want to pull away. To change something. Sad desperate times when I hope fervently that he doesn't notice the unexpected fold, the softness where I ought to be firm or the lumps where I ought to be smooth. I know he notices more my attitude. That he wishes I felt about my body as he does. And that my attitude is more of a turn off to him than my body is. I wish I could see myself as he does.  

Even more discouraging though is that I don't believe, any more, that losing those last 15 pounds is going to make any difference and I've lost my motivation to keep trying. I don't want to step on the scale tomorrow morning for my Tuesday weigh in - a steady part of my routine since October - because I know that no matter what the number says, I'll still only see my scarred and sagging belly, my matron arms, and my bumpy pasty thighs. I'm 43 ... surely I need to be realistic that my body has seen it's best days and I was too foolish to notice them. 

Talking to my auntie this weekend, I raved about the joy of having discovered, of late, my collarbones. And the finer structures of my ankles. And that little lump of bone on the outsides of my wrists. Of having been delighted by a body whose bits and pieces I have trouble recognizing as me.

Maybe I need something to remind me of that. A small tattoo, perhaps, on my wrist that reminds me of a land that used to be hidden. A talisman that pulls me back from what's wrong and gets me present to the so-very-much that is right these days. 

I want to promise that I'll stop feeling this way. That I'll stop hating my stomach. That I'll accept and even celebrate the body I have created now. And that I'll believe Sweetness when he tells me what he sees when he looks at me - for his sake, if not for my own. I want to promise all that. I just don't know that that's a promise I can keep.

PS - My friend the UberCoach just sent me this image ... she makes me smile. :)