Minkgirl Muses

more BODY

1. I love watching people look at themselves in shop windows. The undeniable draw of a vast expanse of reflective glass. The secret hope that the image will be different this time. The shy ones sneak peeks as they pass by, trying to keep their head movements casual, as if they just accidentally happened to come face to face with themselves and aren’t too bothered by it. The sexy ones slow down, prolonging the lusciously narcissistic moment, perhaps inviting others to look as well. With their subtle posture shifts and minor clothing adjustments, these window-watchers reveal the intimate connections they share with their inner most-beautiful selves, and their constant desire for others to see those selves instead of the ones with the sloped shoulders and the droopy buttocks. Where our bodies are concerned, we remain creatures of hope. Perhaps time is not marching forward in one direction. Perhaps the toll taken is still reversible. Perhaps I will look in the mirror today and discover again the 20-year girl – the one I left standing on a pedestal in Trafalgar square, wearing skinny jeans and a billowing electric blue blouse, hair flying in the breeze.

2. I went to the tailor last week and left blushing. My post-partum body, which more closely resembles under-baked bread than supple sinewy flesh, requires clothes. I prefer that these clothes be comfortable, yet not completely matronly. I have two pairs of cute pants I wore in early pregnancy, and I thought with some alteration they might still work. I found the one tailor listed in my town and called to confirm the continued existence of the shop. A man with a lyrical Arabic accent answered and assured me he could take on the work. From the voice, I was picturing the tailor as a kindly Afghani man in his 60’s with twinkling eyes and grizzled hands, who would smile at the baby and treat me like a daughter. But when I stepped out of the blazing sunshine into the tiny shop, the man who greeted me was 25, slender and handsome, with piercing brown eyes. I immediately started to balk at the thought of showing off my mushy midriff to this fellow. I tried to talk my way out of actually trying on the pants, but in the end there was no help for it. He ushered me to an alcove with a curtain and waited for me to emerge. I stood facing the mirror, sucking in my stomach (kind of like trying to hide a watermelon in a change-purse), and standing stock still so that I would not make any more contact with him than was necessary. He stood behind me and carefully placed his hands on my hips, just above the drooping waistband. A whisper of warm skin. Gently he tugged the material this way and that, inserting pins. More touching, down the sides of my legs, the small of my back, my bum. Yikes. He worked slowly, clearly focused on getting it right, but maybe also (am I imagining this?) taking just a little more time than he needed. Either he enjoys the sensual nature of his job, or perhaps he perceived my discomfort and was teasing me a bit. Either way, it was sweet agony. And when at last I burst out of the shop back into the anonymous daylight, I was struck by how easily we are unhinged by the unexpected. The body’s appetites are unconcerned with gender, age, ethnicity or appropriateness. The body does not know that it is considered attractive or not by the culture in which it lives. The body doesn’t care what anyone thinks.

3. Several times a day, I lie belly to belly with my daughter while she feeds. She curls into me and embeds her arms and legs into my flesh. I fold my arms around her and rest my face on top of her fuzzy head. Sometimes we fall asleep together in this embrace. Sometimes my bottom arm goes numb and I get a crick in my neck. Sometimes she wakes me with surprisingly forceful rabbit kicks to the gut. I know from experience that this sweet coupling will be exceptionally brief. In 4 months, 8 months, 12 months, she will be too big and too squirmy to cuddle with like this. In 4 years, 8 years, 12 years, she will be too much her own woman to let her Mama hold her. Time cannot be bargained with.

Be well.


Photo by susiejulie

Labels: body, Mamahood, time