Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

On What Not to Wear they counsel the fashion-challenged to dress for the weight they are and not the weight they want to be. Okay, so I went on that advice to Ann Taylor yesterday. I tried on some summer tops: short sleeved and sleeveless. I felt like a teenager with a pimple: all I could see were my arms and their heft, and not the fabric and the cut and color of the shirts. Is this where I have landed? A mature woman who obsesses about her looks and makes herself uncomfortable because of how her arms look in a burgundy silk sleeveless blouse (on sale)? I can think the most intense thoughts and try to unravel the mysteries of relationships, but if I am uncomfortable with my physical self I will not be able to bring any clarity forth. Let’s make this clear: I am not talking about being thin, I’m talking about losing the body that has accompanied me for so many years. I’m talking about morphing into my mother and my grandmother, about transforming into a woman whose body represents the progress we make through life and is now standing firmly beside her, representing the year 47.

I bought a sleeveless white shirt (on sale), with arms visible from every angle. I bought it to teach me that I will not sink through the earth when people stare at my arms (as they are wont to do) and that until I start pumping I need to be comfortable in the heat of the summer. I even wore it today, as a test of my mettle. And I did not even go through the entire day comparing my arms to those of the even flabbier type (of which there are many, but not as many as the firmly firmer) but I tried to walk confidently in spite of having reached this transformative moment—or because of it. Transformative moments, I guess they are ceaseless. Forcing us, always, to deal with the dimensions of our lives. So, I guess my ugly arms have taught me to not splinter my mind from my body, but that they each display the lessons and experiences of a life earnestly-lived.  

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