Body Image

Middle age is a very weird thing. It does odd things to your head. Like when I hear my mother's voice coming out of my mouth (about as odd a thing as can be considering my relationship with my mom). Or like when I hear myself state an opinion on something or other and realize that my far left-wing liberal self of my glorious 20s would have hated me for it. Or when I find myself wanting to watch TV rather than go through all the effort involved in playing with my boy toy. Or when I realize that, although I can appreciate the sexual aspect of him, I really don't want my boy toy for anything other than sex and that my younger self would have thought the greatness of the sex meant it was a great love affair.

But what it has done to my head has been less surprising than what it has done to my body.

Part of it is this whole mysterious process of menopause. I am now constantly aware and monitoring my body temperature, which fluctuates wildly for no discernable reason other than some gland has suddenly switched on to release a flood of hormones for which I no longer have any use (and being childless, I'm not sure I ever did) into my unsuspecting bloodstream. It's damned inconvenient most of the time. I mean, how exactly do I explain to the 19-year-old basketball player in my office that the reason I suddenly have drops of sweat streaming down my temple isn't because I've stolen his student loan that hasn't yet shown up in his account and for which he holds me accountable? Or what do I say to the high school counselor who books me for his high school's financial aid night every year because he and the parents of the students think I am such a dynamic and charismatic public speaker that I can even make financial aid interesting but who says to me after this year's presentation that he's concerned that I may have developed a bad case of stage fright because I sure did seem to "sweat it up there tonight." Just not pleasant. Not attractive. But, thankfully, also not a daily experience.

I find I'm also much more emotional than I used to be. Whether that is hormonal, I leave to the experts. But I believe it is. I, a woman who once was proud to say I had nevereverever cried at a movie, find myself crying in response to movies, television shows, songs, and even fucking commercials. I don't really think I've suddenly developed a deep well of empathy or become less cynical. I think hormones are wreaking havoc with my brain's emotional centers, fooling my crying response into thinking I give a shit. So, if you should see me crying, perhaps during the singing of the national anthem before a Steeler game, don't mistake it for me suddenly becoming a softie. And don't fuck with me, either, by pointing it out. That would be a huge mistake on your part. I might cry while I do it, but I'll rip your damn heart out and feed it to you just like I always did.

A more pleasant side effect is the dramatic increase of my sex drive. Everyone always told me this diminished as you entered menopause. And that always worried me a bit because I've always had a pretty healthy appetite (at least I thought so) and I was afraid to lose that. Well, I can tell you that that particular myth is complete bullshit. It's gone completely off the charts. Out of control. On my mind 24/7. So much so, that my OB/GYN tested me for my testosterone levels (which are normal for someone my age). It was a relief to know that, while I want to fuck like a man, I am not in any danger of turning into one. Whew. Good to know.

But the best thing of all is what it has done to how my body looks. I now have the body I would have killed for at 17. I know that sounds boastful and that all you other women my age are rolling your eyes and thinking, "Whatever, you lying sack of crap," but it's true. I remember well how awkward I was then and how painfully aware of it I was every single minute. And how the trauma of that lived with me ever after, making me loathe my body in whatever form it had taken at that moment.

Picture this: ahead of everyone else, you suddenly shoot up to 5'5" in fifth grade. That made me taller than everyone else in my class for at least the next three or four years. On top of that, I never weighed more than 100 pounds until about 5 years after high school graduation and didn't really need to wear a bra until I was 19. I couldn't wear girls' jeans because my legs were at least six inches too long for the longest ones and I couldn't wear junior jeans because, instead of that lovely hourglass waistline all my friends had, I went straight down from my shoulders to my thighs. No indentations whatsoever. I was called Olive Oyl and Zipper (stand sideways and stick our your tongue...hilarious, no?). It was a great moment when, at age 19, I almost literally woke up one morning and there they were...my magnificent 38Cs. It was doubly great because they took all attention from how weird looking the rest of me still was.

Looking back, I had a few years in my late 20s and early 30s when I first got together with Tom and probably looked pretty damn good. I still had no waist, but it was as good as it was ever going to get. I know he sure liked it because he loved to get me into a bikini for any reason whatsoever. I was still painfully self-conscious, but his admiration muted it. But, Tom being Tom and all, that didn't last long. After we began co-habitating and I had to adjust my lifestyle to his, I gained weight steadily over the years. Which was perfectly understandable since I cooked huge meals most days and, due to his inability to keep to a schedule or to keep me informed of his plans, ate them when he came home at 9 or 10pm (because he didn't like to eat alone). Soon enough, my weight fluctuated between 130 and 145, an incomprehensible amount to me and disgustingly fat to him. I spent the last ten years loathing myself and flinching from the constant criticism from him. If you'd lose some of that weight, he'd say, maybe I'd want to have sex with you. Well, I didn't and he didn't. Instead, 19 years of my life went by and he had it with someone else (actually two: one who weighed more or less the same as I but was considerably shorter and one who weighed massive quantities more than me. But who expects logic from him? Certainly not me.).

Which brings me to this amazing and wonderful thing, this new and improved body of mine. Now that I have dropped all that weight and have kept it off for a year, I can't believe that this is my body. Everything I ever liked about it is still there (granted, it was only tits and legs, but they are still my pride and joy). And suddenly everything I ever didn't like about is how I always wanted it to be. I can't tell you how it feels to finally feel good about that. There simply aren't words for how that makes me feel.

And the last few months, I have taken advantage of that body and my pleasure in it. It's great that very young (I know, I know, that's all relative but allow me my small pleasures) men find me sexy and smoking hot. I've liked it a lot. But it's not enough. I will never be able to have any kind of relationship with any of them, even Kenny, that isn't mainly about sex. And that's just not enough.

But what is enough is how happy I am when I look at myself naked in a mirror. To feel that way just once in my life is like winning the lottery...improbable and incomprehensible. And sweet. Oh, so sweet.