Day 82: You Don't Know What You've Got Til it's Gone

These perfect, sky blue Maine days do have one horrifying downside: me in a bathing suit. As I was packing for the trip (and believe me, figuring out which bathing suit is the best of the bad took hours), the thought that it might rain, thus sparing me the humiliation of donning a skimpy piece of boob-belly defining lycra, put a big smile on my face.

I had a great body when I was younger, but I certainly didn’t appreciate it at the time. My belly was roly-poly, my hips too wide. My legs were too muscular and scarred from my childhood adventures. I wished I was taller, like my sisters. Looking back, I would kill for that body. I’d kill for the body I had at 30. I’d kill for the body I had at 40. It only makes sense that when I’m 60 I’ll kill for what I’ve got now. So why can’t I appreciate it now? Why do I have to wait ten years?

Why am I so hard on this body that has treated me so well? Why do I concentrate on all its imperfections instead of celebrating its strengths? When I was a child I could run as fast as my much older siblings. When I was a teenager I did gymnastics and cartwheeled and back handspringed and aerialed myself into the county sectional championships. As an adult I gave birth to four healthy children. I should be grateful. My body has never let me down.

Now I buy jeans with flap pockets because they make my flat butt look rounder; I’ve tried Spanx, but despite what the package says they do give me a cauliflower-dimpled muffin top. Don’t get me started on my bra roll. Yet despite these highly visible flaws, I’m strong, I can run 13.2 miles, and I can still do a cartwheel and a back dive. When I did a fitness evaluation a few years ago I was told that my body had the biological age of a 33-year-old and I could lose another 6 years if I’d just drink more water. D’s got himself a trophy wife! What’s my problem?

And besides, what makes me think anyone on the beach is looking at me and my imperfections? Everyone’s too busy pulling up and tugging down, saronging (what a multi-billion dollar industry that must be), sucking in and pushing out, arranging just so. And if they do happen to glance my way, I hope what they’ll notice is my beautiful dark gray, strapless bathing suit (thank you, J. Crew), the sarong that looks really pretty with it, my nice tan (not good, I know), and the enthusiastic game of Bananagrams that I’m playing with my family. Who cares that I don’t look like Gisele Bundchen in a bathing suit? I bet she has a few insecurities of her own.