My right arm is stronger than my left, physical consequences of a 30lb toddler who likes to be held. My eyes are bright green and incredibly myopic; I worry about cataracts and glaucoma and fantasize about lasik. My pinky toes turn inward like needy newborns desperate for a cuddle. A full bottom lip, soft dark curly hair, weak nails and moles in hidden places. Oh, and the palpable evidence of a beloved pregnancy: a soft ring of flesh around the middle and the faint tracks of skin stretched tight right under a bellybutton that used to be decorated with jewelry.
I never hated you, dear body. Mostly I've just been disappointed in how little time I've devoted to you. I ponder soft bits and know that with a little discipline you could be tighter, tauter, fitter. I sigh in chagrin over rough edges and red scars and know that blemishes could be avoided if only I'd taken better care...
There are good days, when clothes fit and when skin is calm and hair is artfully arranged and I see you in the mirror and I think: Lucky! And there are bad days when clothes are tight and makeup can't cover breakouts and when our hair is a warning to others to be thankful for their straight locks and I see you in the mirror and I think: I'm sorry - I wish I could be better for you.
And now, body, it's just us. No lover to admire you like we'd planned - for that I'm sorry too.
But you're strong as you need to be, healthier than I could hope for, capable of stamina in the midst of sleepless nights, difficult burdens and too many sodas. I'm so thankful for you. I do love you.
I hope that one day I can love you better.
[This is my contribution to the “SheLoves” synchrolog, “A Love Letter to My Body.” Be sure to write your own.]