Category Quick Jump
Writing from my belly.
This is something I’m going to start doing. Why? Because I hate my belly. Like my mom and her mom, I’m tall and thin, with a belly. Any weight I put in first goes to my stomach. So I end up thick through the middle with danglely arms and stick legs. An AT-AT walker kind of woman, except on two legs instead of four.
Can I learn to love my belly and love my mom and grandmom? The bit of revulsion I just felt as I typed that last sentence makes me think, probably not, on an emotional, easy to reach level. Can I learn to love my belly – my full, comforting belly filled with fuel and warming my body like a hearth?
Can I learn to treat it right – not overstuffing it with newspaper and garbage that blows through the house leaving soot and burnt garbage everywhere? Can I learn to burn fragrant wood, dried and cut properly to leave a minimum of soot and learn to clean the hearth and chimney properly?
From the belly. The belly that feeds me.
It’s weird because I left off this post to go make lunch (heh) and then did my semi-daily calisthenics: my crunches and weights (weights for my arms). As I was doing the crunches, I realized that they are driven by hatred for my belly – real hatred: like I want to make it disappear. I want the poking out hip bones of my teens; the ones I see in fashion ads and to a lesser extent, the (American) movies. I realized the loathing there is in our society for middle aged and older, women.
Here I am, a forty-five year old woman trying to make my body look like it’s sixteen.
Imagine a forty-five year old man doing that and how preposterous it would be.
Yet, I doubt I am the only thirty and upwards woman attempting this impossible feat.
“Hey, Malcolm, humans fill out when they get older. A teen is not mature. Would you try to make yourself look like a child?!”
Gulp. Where does a woman go to see pictures of normal middle-aged women?
The middle-aged men are all over the media in positions of authority. The middle-aged women are there too, but in much fewer numbers. Where are the middle-aged women?! Not the plastic surgery, liposuction addicts but the real, solid ladies? The ones who embrace brains, practical choices and a life of friends, power – personal and beyond – and maturing: becoming capable, dependable and credible?
Where are these women? There are many, many, many more pictures of women than men out there in the art/reproduction and media realms, no? Yet they are all clustered in the thirteen to thirty-five age group. Thirty-five: half of seventy. Thirty-five: the year I realized that there were no more excuses for anything. I was Adult and fully responsible for myself.
Sad, that this is the age at which we stop seeing images of women for. It’s like the fully adult woman doesn’t exist. Perhaps, in most cases, she becomes Mom.
* Sorry for the abrupt end, but this mature lady has some work to do. I will pick up next time I write. Tis fucking cool to be a Leddy!
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