Like many women of my generation (heck, maybe all the generations!), I've had a love/hate relationship with my body. There are things I love - that it moves mostly effortlessly when I want it to, and hate - I've always wanted to be taller and slimmer. But as I approach the later chapters in my life, I find that I have also begun to appreciate and revere it in new ways.
There was a time when I challenged it beyond reason. I would try to carry ALL the groceries from the car into the kitchen at one time. Not only did it make climbing the basement stairs incredible dangerous, there were no medals or accolades waiting when I made it. What I did get was a pain in my hands and arms and the distinct fear that I could have tumbled down all 14 steps. When I started to give myself a break and make two trips, it also gave me a few more steps towards my daily count. I learned that I could be kinder to myself and I wasn't being a wimp.
In my teenage years, it was common for my friends and me to bemoan the lack of natural fluffiness in our upstairs department. Let me put it another way: what nature didn't give you, a Wonderbra might. Though I didn't resort to emptying the tissue box into my bra, my sweaters sure would have fit better with 'more there'! Today, as I approach my mid-50s, this is the last thing on my mind and I often feel relieved that I wasn't more well-endowed. Recently, I purchased a bra online. Talk about shopping in the dark! I had to rely on sheer mathematics. When the package arrived and I opened it, I found a brassiere that looked like it could accommodate Helga the Buxom. I guffawed loudly and showed it to my husband. "Get a load of this, babe! They must have sent me the wrong size... It's ENORMOUS!" But then I tried it on. It fit.
My mother, who is 87, is reaching the point when the body she relied on is beginning to fail her. She was used to putting on shoes and just going wherever she wanted. Now it is taking more than a few pharmaceuticals to keep her upright. She is frustrated at the slowness of the bounce-back and wishes that wishing would make it so.
About a month ago, I began to develop a funny little lump at the second joint of my index finger. I rubbed it curiously when it started to ache. I showed it to a nurse friend who told me, with a sympathetic look, that it was probably arthritis. ARTHRITIS?? You've got to be kidding me! I'm just... Well, I guess it is possible.
It is with a sigh that I say that aging ain't for sissies, and waking up with a pain here or an ache there has become commonplace. I know that things will only get worse from here, but I still have arms that lift what I need them to lift (within reason), legs that can get me where I want to go, senses that still work fairly well, and innards that - if I treat them right - will function to expectation. I know that a time will come when I'll adjust activities, like not driving at night or using a walking stick. I'll change my behavior to accommodate my changing body by allowing more time for self care or taking an afternoon nap. I'll use the restroom whenever an opportunity comes up. I'll have to retrace my steps to remember why I walked into the kitchen.
But for now, I will respect the temple, make self-care a priority, and simply be kind to myself. While I can't control where life takes me, I can definitely manage my attitude along the way.
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