The View from Ten
It's been a while it seems. February, when I was in the throes of a broken foot and a doubly ruptured plantar fascia. In all this time, I've thought about writing, longed to, and yet . . . I wrote for other places, I wrote for books, I wrote in my mind. I stopped time, in many ways.
2019 has been brutal to me. It's been an unending barrage of punches to the face and gut. As I type this now, I shiver a little wondering what will happen next. Will the universe serve me another blow? What insult and injury awaits me this week? I hold my breath.
In the fires of memory, I spent a large portion of August in Colorado. Per usual, I found myself footing myself up and down mountainsides, and most pointedly, I made it 3/4 of the way down an expert level hike in Black Canyon. I didn't make it all the way as lupus and asthma said hello, more than once, and my sister from another mother and father--Jen--and I agreed that wrecking myself to make it up and down was not an option. She was openly afraid that the National Park rangers would have to airlift me out of the canyon base, or more profoundly she feared my Dad killing her if I was either injured or dead from the trek. In our forties, there are still points of departure, fear, and angst. We all have them, even if you don't want to admit it.
While in Denver, the youngest agnostic daughter came bounding in from art camp with two portraits. One of me and one of her. She didn't get to finish me, but that doesn't matter.
As many women (or is most?), I look at my myself in the mirror or pictures and cringe at elements of my shape and person. My biceps are certainly not shapely, and I've never been comfortable with the form of my ass or the way my gut settles. Yet, I logically know I'm smaller in weight and pants sizes these days, yet the struggle remains. The loss of more weight is recommended, but a trope of drugs I eat for meals or snacks (depending on your take) lock weight on me like an overprotective father towering over his daughter tucked away behind a padlock. Even more so, my body routinely fails me (as this year has been a testament of epic proportions). I push the boundaries, and I wreck myself with guilt that I workout routinely, and I still lack core strength and a socially acceptable body shape.
Perhaps the relationship that vanished into a winter night's cold air, without cause or warning, still shakes me. Maybe it was the comment that I'm fun, and happy (even too comfortable in my ease and jovial nature, and I am still confused about that one), but I'm not the type to take out. I heard something about not looking the part. I look in the mirror and see my face and frame and wonder, now as I did a few months back, what that means. I have a catchphrase of "things men say to me." That one surpasses that phrase by leaps and bounds. There was another one who was even more crass, having left char marks after a few evenings. I wonder why I try. Yet, then I think back to that ten-year-old who--like me--often takes up all the air in the room upon entry.
She bounded in, proud and elated, at her drawing. I was touched to my core; I still am, to be honest. I think of our bike rides. I think of my still being in a brace on my foot (as I am now), and I remember reaching for an emergency inhaler hit as I felt my lungs wheeze. I remember her asking me if I had my inhaler when we left the house. I remember her saying, "I'm glad you stopped for that." I remember our chatter on our bike rides and other adventures. I remember, and never forget, that she's a gymnast competing in Junior Olympic meets. She makes most adults look bad at athletics. Yet, when together it all erases to make us on the same level.
I wonder why other factors of my life aren't so kind.
As I sit here in a pair of cut off overalls, scrounged from my Mom's closet purge this summer, the fan hums. I'm in a camisole and those 20+-year-old overalls that are too big, with a do-rag, and not caring what the world thinks today. I walked around the 'hood earlier. Memories of her portrait echoed in my mind as I bounded along the uneven sidewalks of Queens. When I left the house, I momentarily thought about putting on a shirt (a real one per se). I did not. Why?
When "I" sees me as closer to fit and fun than not, then why shouldn't I?
2019 has been brutal to me. It's been an unending barrage of punches to the face and gut. As I type this now, I shiver a little wondering what will happen next. Will the universe serve me another blow? What insult and injury awaits me this week? I hold my breath.
In the fires of memory, I spent a large portion of August in Colorado. Per usual, I found myself footing myself up and down mountainsides, and most pointedly, I made it 3/4 of the way down an expert level hike in Black Canyon. I didn't make it all the way as lupus and asthma said hello, more than once, and my sister from another mother and father--Jen--and I agreed that wrecking myself to make it up and down was not an option. She was openly afraid that the National Park rangers would have to airlift me out of the canyon base, or more profoundly she feared my Dad killing her if I was either injured or dead from the trek. In our forties, there are still points of departure, fear, and angst. We all have them, even if you don't want to admit it.
While in Denver, the youngest agnostic daughter came bounding in from art camp with two portraits. One of me and one of her. She didn't get to finish me, but that doesn't matter.
A ten-year-old's view of herself.
When I saw me, I stood and gasped. The reddish hair, frazzled about, is spot on. The pasty white skin, as she couldn't finish me, matches me more than not. Yet, the mid-drift showing made me gasp. And then I felt myself relax as the internal voice in my head reminded me that she sees me as such. I'm still a little blown back.
Me. In the eyes of a ten-year-old.
As many women (or is most?), I look at my myself in the mirror or pictures and cringe at elements of my shape and person. My biceps are certainly not shapely, and I've never been comfortable with the form of my ass or the way my gut settles. Yet, I logically know I'm smaller in weight and pants sizes these days, yet the struggle remains. The loss of more weight is recommended, but a trope of drugs I eat for meals or snacks (depending on your take) lock weight on me like an overprotective father towering over his daughter tucked away behind a padlock. Even more so, my body routinely fails me (as this year has been a testament of epic proportions). I push the boundaries, and I wreck myself with guilt that I workout routinely, and I still lack core strength and a socially acceptable body shape.
Breaking the boundaries. Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. When you need a wilderness permit, you know your hike is one for the books. When there's a chain on the trail, you know that the word steep is an understatement.
Perhaps the relationship that vanished into a winter night's cold air, without cause or warning, still shakes me. Maybe it was the comment that I'm fun, and happy (even too comfortable in my ease and jovial nature, and I am still confused about that one), but I'm not the type to take out. I heard something about not looking the part. I look in the mirror and see my face and frame and wonder, now as I did a few months back, what that means. I have a catchphrase of "things men say to me." That one surpasses that phrase by leaps and bounds. There was another one who was even more crass, having left char marks after a few evenings. I wonder why I try. Yet, then I think back to that ten-year-old who--like me--often takes up all the air in the room upon entry.
She bounded in, proud and elated, at her drawing. I was touched to my core; I still am, to be honest. I think of our bike rides. I think of my still being in a brace on my foot (as I am now), and I remember reaching for an emergency inhaler hit as I felt my lungs wheeze. I remember her asking me if I had my inhaler when we left the house. I remember her saying, "I'm glad you stopped for that." I remember our chatter on our bike rides and other adventures. I remember, and never forget, that she's a gymnast competing in Junior Olympic meets. She makes most adults look bad at athletics. Yet, when together it all erases to make us on the same level.
I wonder why other factors of my life aren't so kind.
As I sit here in a pair of cut off overalls, scrounged from my Mom's closet purge this summer, the fan hums. I'm in a camisole and those 20+-year-old overalls that are too big, with a do-rag, and not caring what the world thinks today. I walked around the 'hood earlier. Memories of her portrait echoed in my mind as I bounded along the uneven sidewalks of Queens. When I left the house, I momentarily thought about putting on a shirt (a real one per se). I did not. Why?
When "I" sees me as closer to fit and fun than not, then why shouldn't I?
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