FEMININE BODY PARTS

Have you ever noticed the feminine capacity to carve off bits of our bodies, as if we were--say-a joint at a Sunday dinner and pass judgment on them?  Do men do that?  Do they look in the mirror and say, "Crap! My nose is horrific."  I do understand there's a certain amount of nervous fussing about receding hairlines.  I get that. But this need to take inventory and cast aside body parts which don't meet our expectations?  I think this is more a woman thing.

And the stakes are higher, the cost is higher.  One day my college-aged daughter and I sat on the floor, backs against the couch, and had one of those conversations I think only women can have together.

"What parts of your body do you like?" I asked, knowing that she also carved bits off her corpus, putting some into the "okay bin," some into the "almost okay bin," and others into the "hideously unsuitable bin."  Notice there is rarely a "Fabulous bin."

"Umm, I like my feet."  She wiggled her toes.  "Nice and narrow, like yours.  Only prob. is finding shoes that fit."  "Yeah, I have that problem too.  Skinny feet."  They barely make the "okay bin."

"What about your nose?" I asked.  "Oh, crap, way, way too big," came back immediately. "Yeah, your grandpa Dick had a big nose, and I got it too," I said.  She gave me a look that told me she was definitely unhappy with this genetic inheritance.

"Legs?" I murmured.  "Yeah, I actually like them.  They have a good shape.  You have great legs, Mom."  Wow, I felt I should open a bottle of Prosecco to celebrate.  We both had found something we could toss into the "Okay and almost fabulous bin."

"Arms?"  "Not bad, as long as I work out."  She held them in front of her, turning them in the afternoon sunlight.  We both have fairly slim arms and wrists, hands and legs.  I gather the arms could go into the "okay bin."

By comment consent we did not mention the word "stomach," as just about no woman I know is happy with hers.  Although my daughter did mention the word "six-pack," as in--"I have been working out and I've got some muscles there."  So this can go into the "mostly okay bin."

"Hair?" I ventured.  "Ack!  Nothing more to be said.  Way too curly, way too thick, impossible to figure out what to do with it."

"Yeah."  I nodded.  I had spent all of my considerable adult life toying with, fighting, hating, sometimes accepting, but mostly disliking my hair.  It is only now, in my 60s, that I have almost, almost come to term with my very, very curly hair.  I now let it go natural(after a good cut, of course!), using fabulous hair products for curly hair provided by jessicurl.  My husband loves this look, as does my daughter.

Alors.  Body parts are scattered over the floor.  We need to put them together somehow.  I search through my tatty brain, looking for the right words, healing words, words of acceptance.

"I think," I said slowly, "that we come to love our bodies more as we age."  She gave me an unbelieving look. "Really.  As you get into my decade you are grateful for just being upright, on this earth, having teeth, eyes that work, hands that can grasp, legs that dance, and feet that still work.  The key is gratitude.  I remember something my mother told me three days before she died."

"She patted her own leg as I sat beside her and said, 'I don't say, Annie, I wish this leg worked better.  I say, blessings that my leg still works.  Thank you.'"

And that's what we need to do.  Maybe instead of little rubber bracelets that say, WWJD, we need bracelets for women which simply say, "Thank you." My daughter took this in, and I hope that someday when she is looking at herself in the mirror and disliking what she sees, she will remember this conversation and whisper, "Thank you," to the mirror.