Dear My Body,
It has come to my attention recently that you have not been functioning and behaving in an optimal way. Let me be frank, Body. I’m not impressed. You’ve been slacking.
More specifically, we need to discuss my metabolism, and how it is changing. Many years ago, Body, we made an arrangement: All Things in Moderation = an Acceptable/Average-ish Shape and Size. I realize that this arrangement and my genetics may not have yielded a California beach bod, and more of a sweaters & jeans in the winter in Wisconsin physique. But I was okay with that. More or less.
However, these days, Body, you are not keeping your end of the bargain. What gives? Now when I indulge in the extra butter, or the cheese, or the occasional lager, these indulgences show up on my waistline. What do you have against butter, anyway, Body? Are you suggesting I should forgo butter the rest of my life and trade it in for sprinkles of that sad butter-like powder? It’s never gonna happen, Body. You have to take a stand sometimes in life, and this is mine. Butter.
Then there are the other issues, more evidence of your lousy attitude and negligence. There are the aches, Body. The pains. You seem to have mistaken me for someone old enough to have . . . oh, I can’t bring myself to say it (rhymes with “shmarthritis”). It’s not dignified. What is the point of owning cute shoes if I have to hobble in them? Hobbling is not a good look, Body. It does not scream “youthful vivaciousness.” You seem to be suggesting I am past the point of wearing cute shoes, Body. And I resent it.
I won’t even deign to talk about my eyesight. Okay, yes, my eyesight overall is still good, and I should be grateful. But the fine print, Body. The fine print. I would argue with you about what the fine print says, but I don’t know what it says because I can’t read it.
You get the idea.
To quote Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada, “Am I reaching for the stars here?” No. I think not. I am not asking to be Cher—though did you see her, Body, at the recent Billboard Awards, bespangled in next-to-nothing and rocking “If I Could Turn Back Time” at age 71? I mean, please. Her Body has its act together and would never be the recipient of such a memo.
This list should give you a good picture of my concerns, though make no mistake, the list is not complete. I look forward to your timely response and anticipate that you will remedy the situation.
Sincerely,
Me
Dear Me,
I am sorry you feel this way. Or, more to the point: You Ungrateful Twit.
May I remind you: You have arms that work, legs that work, and eyes that see. You can hear. You can think.
You have a body that was able to carry and give birth to three children. Maybe you need to pause for a good long while on that one. Not everyone who wants to is able to do so. In your better moments, when you are considerably less whiny, I know you know that. And this body, the one you are complaining about, has the privilege of raising them.
Also, I know you love butter. Fine. Love the butter. But hey, here’s an idea: How about some exercise? Butter + exercise is going to yield far more desirable results than butter + watching Netflix. Don’t blame me. I didn’t make the rules. Blame math.
You think I’m slacking—are we supposed to pretend you have always treated me well? How about that time that you didn’t go to the dentist for three years? Or the eye doctor for, a-hem, eight?
You do not even want me to bring up the ages of, say, 17-25. Those years will not be found filed under “Treat Your Body Like a Temple.” Time to zoom straight towards Grateful Humility and move on. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred.
What can I say? You’re getting older. Them’s the breaks.
Enjoy the cheese if you want to. Have a lager, too. Your waistline might be thicker, but you can choose not to care.
Meanwhile, You want to keep that body you’re lucky to have working as well as it can, and your brain, too? First, hope for a big bucket of undeserved luck. Then there are the parts over which you have some control. Drink more water. Go for more walks. Get more sleep. This isn’t rocket science, my friend. And go to the dentist every year, for Pete’s sake.
Sincerely,
Your Body
P.S. Regarding Cher—The rest of us Bodies do not understand, nor can we comprehend this phenomenon. We’ve had meetings. We’re working on it.