The Body in Five Parts

Part One - The Body as Advertisement

I went bra shopping today. It’s always a hassle. Nothing ever fits, the girls who work there are bitchy, I hate getting dressed and undressed countless times just to find one lousy bra that will cost me at least fifty dollars. I start to sweat. I get grumpy after looking at myself in unflattering light for so long. Not my favorite activity.

It got me thinking about body image. In truth, it doesn’t take much to get me thinking about body image – it’s on my mind all the time, but after thirty minutes in La Senza, surrounded by perfect breasts (or the dream of perfect breasts) and slinky soft clingy lingerie, it’s all I could think about.

I compare myself to every woman I see. Every ass, every thigh, every flat stomach and every set of perky tits – I see them all. I see a fat woman, and I think, ‘Thank god that’s not me, not quite yet’. I see a woman with thick ankles and a lumpy ass, and think, ‘At least I’ve learned to hide my flaws, as best I can’. I see a woman with long tanned legs and perfect, stiletto-defined calves, and I think, ‘Never me, that will never be me’.

This sounds like self-pity, like the worst kind of self-indulgence. I am aware of it, and I am aware of the futility of it. I get that it’s unhealthy, and I try not to do it - but this kind of thinking is a habit, and I’ve broken very few habits in my life. I am still trying to figure out how to charm and disarm the snake of envy that coils itself at my feet. I still apply chapstick every ten minutes. I still haven’t quit smoking.

Part Two - The Body as Currency

I am comfortable in my habits.

To whit - sometimes I worry that I’m the fat girl who people keep around so they won’t be the fattest or ugliest girl in the room. Luckily there is almost always someone else in the room, someone to unwittingly play that role for me. That poor girl.

Right now, that poor girl’s name is Susan Boyle.

That poor ugly fat girl with the shockingly, miraculously lovely voice. Who would ever expect such a poor specimen of womanhood – a unibrowed, mustached, graying, and lumpy excuse for a woman – to have talent, to beguile with her voice? Who would ever expect a siren song to issue forth from that mouth, those lips, that throat? What a hideous spectacle, a middle-aged woman who’s never been kissed, what nerve she had to walk onto the stage at a televised talent contest, to emerge with so much confidence, such hip-shaking insouciance! The faces of everyone in the room at her audition, I’ll never forget or forgive the one expression they [we] all shared: Disgust. Then she sang. The first note rose to the roof of the auditorium; all those terrible people in the audience, and all of the people [us] watching at home looked up in disbelief. Disgust became disbelief, disbelief became shock, shock became wonder, and with this realization, a kind of weird bliss filled the room.

I felt sick for watching. I could feel the vultures [me] circling her, this poor sad excuse for a woman – and I knew it was only a matter of time before this creature was picked clean.

It’s unspoken but insinuated – a woman like that should never leave the house.

Susan came along at just the right time for me. She is everywhere, and so I always feel a bit better about myself for it. Sorry Susan. I hope you never forgive me [us].

Part Three - The Body as Noun

There is such a disconnect between the me inside my head, and the me outside my head. The me that is defined by thought, and the me that is defined by skin. Am I mistaken, or does everyone feel this way? What percentage of yourself is defined by your body?

My body is: a temple, a vessel, an oak. My body has been: ravaged, sliced, worshiped. My body will be: burnt, dissected, invaded.

My body is not me. My body is a landmine.

I am blood and bowels and bones, and miles of skin, unraveled. I am meat. I consume myself, daily. I am biology. [I celebrate myself, and sing myself] I am legs and arms and torso, I am a skeleton mounted on an iron rod, I wear a mask and a filthy pink dress. [I am large, I contain multitudes] Study anatomy and you will know everything you need to know about me. My bones are labeled clearly, I am Latin words, I am a graverobber’s delight.

My body is me. My body is a textbook.

Part Four - The Body as Argument

Answer the questions below as truthfully as possible. There are no right answers, but there are plenty of wrong answers. You have an entire lifetime to answer, but you will be graded based on speed. Grammar and spelling always count.

1) What percentage of your body is water? What percentage of your body is mineral? What percentage of your body is desire? What percentage of your desire consumes you? What percentage would you spare for a little more beauty?

2) Complete this sentence: “My body is ____________”

a. For sale to the highest bidder.
b. A weapon.
c. The enemy that you know.

3) Read this sentence: “Beautiful people will never experience pain as I know it. Beautiful people never chafe. Beautiful people and what they achieve are the measure of success.” Do you:

a. Strongly agree.
b. Agree.
c. Disagree.
d. Strongly disagree.
e. Secretly envy the truth of it.

4) Which parts of your body do you love the most? Is it possible to love a length of bone wrapped in muscle and skin? Do you think that your body loves you?

5) Write an essay about someone else’s body. In it, compare their body to a ship, using nautical terminology; you are encouraged to compare yourself to a mermaid or the sea.

6) Reach out to the person next to you and brush the hair from their cheek. Admire the rise of their cheekbones, and pay special attention to stray hairs and chicken pox scars. Remark upon the richness and strangeness of their eyes. Extra marks will be awarded to those who use the words ‘enchanting’, ‘dusk’, and ‘sentient’.

Part Five - The Body as Self

The me that is me, and the me that is my body – one day I hope to reconcile the two selves. Right now one is a doppelganger, although I’m not sure which. One of these follows me from room to room. Sometimes I feel like I’m dragging a ghost behind me. Is it a corporeal ghost, or a ghost that is the voice behind my eyes?

My doppelganger is always me, in some way, or I would never recognize it. Otherwise, it would just be another shadow.

I am using the me behind my eyes to write this, but I feel the air around the other me while I write. The eyes of the other me are reading this as I type. The me behind those eyes is dictating every word. My doppelganger is changing places and becoming the other as I write.

One day I will learn to reconcile the pieces and parts and selves of me.

I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume […]

I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and
never will be measured […]

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

from Song of Myself, by Walt Whitman (square brackets in 'The Body as Noun' taken from the same)

Addendum:

I ended up buying two bras. They fit really well, and when I wear them I feel - dare I say it? dare I even think it? – ‘sexy.’ I surround that word with quotes because it strikes me as untrue. But I found a few shirts with flattering necklines, so the combination of bra and shirt has given me a small measure of confidence that will carry me through the week.