ms. bing
04-12-2004, 12:11 AM
i was lying downstairs reading some novel or other, probably one considered literary by some and offensive by many, smelling my pork roast. over the course of the hour that smell changed, but i didn't consider this to be too dire because after all, i wasnt seeing smoke, right? not thinking that i was lying on the floor in the lowest part of the house. by time i got up to go check the goddamn thermostat was stuck past 600 degrees. the pork was fine, the aluminum foil was burning, and the house was full of smoke. i propped the door open about a quarter of the way and went to the shower to add some humidity to the air. right after undressing and before i jacked up the hot water i caught myself in one of those moments of truth and beauty in the mirror. my god, i thought, no wonder i dont have guys beating down my door. now dont get me wrong, i'm not running for an extreme makeover. the truth is that what i saw, while its emphasis is functionality and it lives up to those expectations fully, would scare the hell out of most guys. its just not considered feminine beauty these days. it was once, in europe, by some guy named boticelli or something. a pretty face, long pretty hair, and big, bright eyes stand in stark contrast to a body built for use. i remember back when i used to do alot of drugs, drink excessively and eat rarely i had one of those conventional feminine bodies, but i was also in bad health and hadnt the energy to stand for long periods of time. i also remember the first time i realized those days were long gone. i was proud of having lost a great deal of weight after having had my daughter, and i put on a cute designer tube top i had bought during the liquor days. just to see what it would look like. i dont even want to think of what i paid for a piece of stretchy material with a flower hand painted by some italian child somewhere. when i put it on my reaction, and i believe my exact words, were "like a tiara on a linebacker". my shoulders are broader and more muscular than the last guy i went out with, and he was a boxer for fuck's sake. my back is incredibly strong, and my legs, which were always muscular when i was a kid, now pop out not only on top of my thighs but in the back of them, too. all the hours of walking and stair climbing that some size four trainer had told me to do after i had gotten serious about losing my post-baby fat had made little impression in my waist and belly, but had turned my ass into some kind of shrine. and that very round, very ample belly that spoke of many good meals like nothing else can. that boticelli guy would have said that a belly and body like that meant i was strong for child birth, and for the most part he would have been right. if he could just tell that to all those capillaries in my birth canal that burst at the stress of pushing that large healthy baby out almost three weeks late. lost two pints of blood, but by god i stayed conscious until i heard my baby was ok. i was vomiting, but concious until she was pronounced safe and healthy. even when i blacked out i still only got about two hours sleep. it was eight hours before i could stand up and they had to give me two units of blood two days later before they could let me leave the hospital. could boticelli have predicted that? do i even have his name right? maybe boticelli is some kind of disease that i dont have to worry about growing in my pork, but it doesnt matter. the idea is the same. this is the image they had of a mother, and that is what they considered beautiful. a large, strong, graceful woman with one arm out pushing, running, rolling, even slamming into bigger obstacles sometimes but always clutching that baby delicately, always holding firmly but not too tightly, making goddamn sure that no matter what the abuse to the body, the package gets safely to the end zone. what is now considered beautiful couldnt make it to the ninth month without an epidural. how long could one of those skinny, beautiful girls hold up a broom in fully contracted curl position with a 25 pound toddler hanging from the middle of it? how many reps could they make? not enough to satisfy a toddler, which i can tell you is roughly 1000. could they put a 100 pound dog in a bathtub against its will? doubt that too. where does this useless standard of beauty come from?
and after all that thinking i come to no conclusion. why am i me and them them? maybe its natural selection. only the ones as unfit for the job as possible can breed. a way of phasing us out, slowly but surely, while women like me languish in dateless land because the naked truth is, well, naked, and there's not much i can do to hide it at that point. clothes could make me look like a size 6, but when they come off the size 12 truth comes out, and i dont see the point of faking it anymore. as we enter the season of the skimp i will maintain my decency and my dignity in baggy capris and shorts and teeshirts big enough to cover the whole body, and i don't care how many pairs of support panties are shown to me at the store. i like to eat. i like to breath. i like to be able to sit down without undoing a button. this is me, and i have to like it, because when your department store burns it will be some woman like me who drags your size one ass out of the flames and down the fire escape on one arm while clutching an armload of sportsbras in the other so you can make it to your appointment at the fertility clinic on time.
and after all that thinking i come to no conclusion. why am i me and them them? maybe its natural selection. only the ones as unfit for the job as possible can breed. a way of phasing us out, slowly but surely, while women like me languish in dateless land because the naked truth is, well, naked, and there's not much i can do to hide it at that point. clothes could make me look like a size 6, but when they come off the size 12 truth comes out, and i dont see the point of faking it anymore. as we enter the season of the skimp i will maintain my decency and my dignity in baggy capris and shorts and teeshirts big enough to cover the whole body, and i don't care how many pairs of support panties are shown to me at the store. i like to eat. i like to breath. i like to be able to sit down without undoing a button. this is me, and i have to like it, because when your department store burns it will be some woman like me who drags your size one ass out of the flames and down the fire escape on one arm while clutching an armload of sportsbras in the other so you can make it to your appointment at the fertility clinic on time.