My body
I love my body, despite my illnesses and swollen legs and water on the knee and the fact that I’m 43 years old, I love my body.
Sure, I’d love to shave another ten or fifteen pounds off, be a bit firmer, and have longer luscious hair and better teeth. But that’s not what my body is about. I’m not talking about perceived beauty; I’m talking about fitting in my own skin.
My body is about me. I can feel sensual and fluid and I can feel gawky and awkward. I love how I can stretch like a cat and feel it in every nerve ending and muscle. I love how I can hear a song or a voice that sets me tingling. I love how I can read a passage from a story and visualize it, and become part of it. I love how I can be distant yet yearning and tactile. I love, no crave touch but have personal space issues. My body is its own polar opposites and yet it’s all me.
I love my body. I love my mind and I love me.