On Bodies (cont.)

It's been a long time I've been in this body, with all its idiosyncratic intricacies. I've accepted the fact my immune system is weak, that my metabolic rate is exceptionally high and that my muscles will probably never get me a job as an underwear model (but I can still admire those kinds of boys, can't I?). I've finally learned how to eat healthily, how to sleep regularly and how to listen to my body's rhythms and keep myself from overrunning it with too much business. I've finally learned how to dress myself myself and take pride in the way I keep myself preened and coiffed.

Really, my body isn't all as awful as I sometimes make it out to be. I'm always fascinated at how quickly my blood coagulates after slicing my thumb when peeling potatoes for Sunday dinner; at how the wound heals and becomes a scar, a seam of flesh, raised and stronger than before. I revel in the glory of sight and sound and touch and taste and smell. I've always recovered from tough bouts of illness, maybe not totally unscathed, but still, my white blood cells always seem to win out over the onslaught of virus and bacteria. I survived childhood without a broken bone, but I believe my bones would have healed themselves, too, had the need presented itself.

Bodies are a wonder. Even mine.

It took a funeral to remind me: I'll be happy to keep it as long as I can.

On Bodies

My dad recently spoke at the funeral of a man who was his cousin and best friend growing up.  The man miraculously survived a terrible motorcycle accident a little over a month ago.  He wasn't wearing a helmet and received some pretty traumatic head wounds.  I believe he was in the ICU for a few days, followed by a convalescence at home.  His recovery was going well: he had been in his home for about three weeks or so, doing fine by all accounts.  It was quite a shock when he did die.  Dad had a difficult time.

This man's funeral, as with all other funerals I've had close experience with, gave me the opportunity to be still and take time to think about some meaningful things.  I've thought a lot about bodies.  What a magnificent clutch of parts: the blood, the bone, the curve of breath and vertabrae and flesh; the nerves and effortless signals of sensation; the brilliance and the banality of thought and thinking.  Bodies are a wonder when you really think about them; I can understand why people call them temples.

That being said, I've had a difficult time understanding and enjoying my own body.  I was always that underweight, asthma-and-allergy-prone, sickly-looking kid, often suffering from this bout of bronchitis, that extended case of pneumonia or the flu, sneezing anytime the pollen count was above zero.  I remember spending many winter days cooped up (or "crouped up", as it were) inside, wearing tents of blankets and handfuls of Vicks Vap-o-Rub, wishing I were out in the snowbanks with my younger brothers and the cousins who lived next door.  I hated the fact that, although I loved camping with my family, I could never breathe through my nose when we spent weekends in the mountains.  I desperately wanted to enjoy horses (which were, of course, my favorite animals EVER!!) and other barnyard animals, but the one time I did saddle up, my lungs closed up and I couldn't breathe for two days.  Thank heaven I could at least spend some limited time with the cats and dogs we kept as pets, only resulting in enflamed mucous membranes and itchy, watery eyes.  Allergies were the bane of my childhood.  I even became allergic to the shots a pediatrician prescribed!

Things got a bit better after puberty.  I'm not sure if my body actually outgrew my sickly symptoms, or if I just had gotten used to managing them.  I still carried an inhaler with me pretty much everywhere I went.  My friends will tell you otherwise, and lead you to believe that I often forgot said inhaler and had to leave weekend card-and-popcorn parties to drive home and get it.  I still took a daily anti-histamine to battle against post-nasal drip.  I still loved horses, but had learned to admire them from a distance.

And, as it happened, I was still quite underweight.  I had a pretty hard time watching my young 16- to 18-year old peers, crowing about how much they were working out, comparing the size of their biceps and their calves with each other.  I was a skinny kid and just wasn't a part of the sweaty weight-room scene.  It was upsetting enough that I remember talking with my mom about it.  "Oh, honey," she said, "You just haven't reached your physical peak as quickly as they have.  You just watch and see: in ten years, you'll be the desirable one, and they'll be growing bellies and back hair."  We giggled at the thought, but I admit, I wasn't exactly convinced at Mom's logic.

Serving a mission didn't help with the feelings of frustration in regard to my health or my body image.  I became very ill and was sent home to undergo a a battery of tests to see why I had lost 10% of my total weight in a matter of weeks.  After months of Western medicine's tactics failed, I began to search out alternative means of diagnosis and healing.  Let's just say it was all, quite literally, a crap-shoot!

End Part I

Skinny Jeans

Ok. I did it.  I purchased my first pair of skinny jeans, a feat which I never imagined I'd undertake.  You see, I don't have the best relationship with my body.  At 5'10" and 130 lbs, I'm just a little slip of a thing, and I've never liked being skinny.  I've avoided any sort of clothing that accentuates my slim and slender frame; in fact, I usually have worn quite a few layers, just to feel like I look a little bulkier than I am.  Or, I'd buy everything a size too big and end up getting lost in fabric.Those tricks never worked, though: I usually looked like I just didn't know how to wear clothes.

I've worn my new jeans a few times since buying them, and I've received quite a few compliments, which has helped me feel more comfortable about wearing such ass-hugging pants.  Enter my dear, delightful mother.

"I thought you didn't like skinny jeans," she commented yesterday.

"Well, Mom," I answered, "I'm trying them out.  A lot of people have said I look great in them."

She frowned as she walked toward the laundry room with a bag of clothes, "But they make you look so...skinny."

I was upset by her disapproval, but didn't want to argue with her.  I have, however, thought quite a lot about why I was angered by her comment.  I think it boils down to the fact that I'm coming to terms with the fact that, hey, I am skinny.  I've become more comfortable with my body.  I'm buying clothes that fit well, rather than buying things a size bigger and baggier so I can feel less little.  I feel like I look good, and other people are noticing.  I guess I wanted my mom to see the way I wore the skinny jeans -- with confidence and style -- rather than seeing that they were only skinny.

I know my mom wasn't attacking me, but I'm kind of glad I got defensive about how I'm dressing myself.  That flare of whatever it was shows me that I really believe there's nothing wrong with my small frame.  That I'm taking pride in myself.  That I can -- and sometimes honestly do -- see myself as an articulate, successful and (yes, even this appealing adjective) an attractive young man.