Tuesday, 22 December 2009
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Currently
Lit: A Memoir
By Mary Karr
see relatedThe Wrong Resolution
This time of year, there’s a lot of talk of getting bodies back, losing weight, and basically being a whole different person come January one. After having babies, your body just isn’t ever what it was before. Boobs refuse to perk, and personally, my mammary tissue is practically gone, having been sucked into the bountiful cheeks of my children. That extra skin on my belly; that’s not going anywhere either. And all this talk of pride in battle scars is commendable, but alien to me.
After the birth of my son, I made a decision. I was not going quietly into the land of orthotics and bulbous multicolored bathrobes. I would fight for my right to be in skinny jeans, to feel sexy and womanish. It’s different for everyone, but for me it meant shedding the extra layer that my pregnancies gave me. I needed new skin.
I made a promise to myself to go to the gym every day, even if it was just to take a shower. I went light at first, I’ll admit, but then the thing happened that everyone talks about; I got addicted. I noticed that when I didn’t go I turned into growling, foul beast mommy. While my forays into personal space (because that’s really what working out is when you have kids) didn’t turn me into a fabulously well put together and organized person, they did seem to even me out some. I did a little less internal fuming, a little less perseverating over things I couldn’t control. I realized that it had less to do with the exercise itself and more to do with the fact that I was doing what I said I was going to. My self loathing stemmed from repeated self-deception, and every day of exercise chipped away at that block of concrete. My contract with myself is never to lie to myself again. Every day that I force my bleary self out of bed is a promise kept, and when I do miss a day of exercise, it is always because I say so.
People ask me how I did it, what I do, and when I tell them that I go to the gym every day, and that I don’t leave until my shirt is wet, they look at me, and either tell me they could never do that, or dismiss my success as lucky genetics. It actually annoys me, because it’s dismissive of my effort, and it's not my genetics, trust me. It’s just that I know that ultimately in the end, it’s just me and me, and I want to feel alive, and independent, and like I can count on myself. Showing up for myself, every day, even for a little while changes everything.
I have muscles, little ones, but more than that I am strong now on the inside. I am not doubled over or paralyzed by the enormous task of raising my family. My body is never going to look the way it did before. I may have been rounder before babies, but my skin was forgiving and smooth in a way it will never be again. Now I’m a little hardened, I’ll admit, but I like it. I feel all Sarah Connorish. I am still far from perfect; no centerfold here. That’s exactly my point. It’s not about perfect, it’s about being there, being your own friend, trite though that may sound. Conquer, at least for a few minutes a day, the part of yourself that is too tired, or shut down or weak to stand up and fight.
You, I tell the part of me that wants to fold up and shrink, bring it, girl. I’m taking you down.
We have all been making too many promises, and not the right ones. Instead of resolving to change so much, we should resolve not to be such dirty liars when it comes to our own lives. The promises we keep to ourselves mean the most, after all.
My theory is that if we just start with one promise kept, little by little we will learn to trust ourselves, and it only follows that self worth and self respect follow shortly behind.
My promise was exercise. Going into the new year, what promises can you make that you can keep?
