Since this pandemic began, I have not felt much like writing. In April we celebrated Easter, many of us in our pajamas watching a church service from our living room sofas. I used my free time during that month to pack boxes, move them by the car load, and to sew masks. The latter felt like an urgent mission, like I was saving lives, so I squeezed in a few stitches here and there until I had to pack all of my sewing supplies into boxes and bins for the move to my new apartment. And after I moved, I unpacked and set up shop and kept sewing.
I made very little space in my head or my day for writing, until today. Today I needed to write because I did something I have not done since possibly August or September of last year — I put on a tank top and wore it in public.
Yesterday my friend announced to me that he is fat. He has gained weight in the last few weeks and is disgusted with himself. After he made a series of self-deprecating comments, I said, “I want you to say one nice thing about yourself. Just one.” He made another comment about being fat, and I scoffed.
His self-hatred (he would refuse to call it that) caused me to reflect on my own. A couple of weeks ago, one very warm day popped up in the middle of a bunch of seasonably cool days, and everyone was outside enjoying the warmth. I went for a run in the evening, and as I crossed a bridge into a park I approached a group of young men playing Frisbee golf.
“Would you hit that?” I heard one of them ask the other.
“No,” the other replied.
“Why not?” I heard him ask, and then he made a comment about old ladies.
I know that I have been objectified like that hundreds of times, but after I overheard the boys’ conversation I felt ugly and vulnerable. And since that night, I have been nervous about showing any skin — arms or legs — in public, especially when I am running.
Today the weather was beautiful, warm and sunny with a breeze, and I was determined to overcome my fears. After work I changed into shorts and a sports bra, and I stood facing my bathroom mirror. I examined my arms, my back, my hips, my thighs, and my belly. I took a deep breath, and I said to myself, “Wendi, if you can’t rejoice in this body, you will never be able to make meaningful changes to it.” I pulled on a tank top and headed out to the walking path.
As I walked, I rejoiced in my legs that have trained for 11 marathons and more than 15 half marathons. I rejoiced in my arms, wobbly as they are, because of a story my Auntie Debbie tells about her grandma’s “bat wings” that were always cool when my aunt sat next to her and rested her head on them. I rejoiced in my “good birthing hips,” as the doctor called them, and my belly. In my body I grew a human, a beautiful baby boy who is today a kind, intelligent, passionate, and thoughtful man and who is also my friend.
I walked and I let the sun warm me, kiss me, rain down on me like a prayer. I rejoiced in my feet, my calves, my thighs, and my behind. I rejoiced in that handful of fat that rests on the top of my butt cheek, the one I grab and wish away. I rejoiced in my belly and my breasts, my arms and my hands. I rejoiced in my neck and shoulders. I rejoiced in my face, its scars and blemishes. I rejoiced in my lips, my eyes, and my curly, dark hair shot through with sparkles.
I told myself that I could make changes in my life that would make changes to my body, because I know how to do that. I know how to do it safely and carefully, with grace and compassion. But I also told myself that I need help to change my mind, to fully love and embrace my self, my body, my fat, my flaws, my imperfections, and to move toward becoming my best self.
I walked, and I rejoiced in the sunshine and the breeze. I gave thanks for the beautiful people I saw walking and biking and skating and fishing and sitting on the grass. And I rejoiced in the marvel that is me, because I am wonderfully, masterfully, and perfectly made.
Being Wendi 