In which I adopt a stout middle-aged mutt from the patriarchy-mindfuck rescue. For my birthday.

I had recently advised a friend that, when something is important, it should get the best of you.  If your job sucks, don't work hard all day and then try to apply for something new when you're shagged from nine hours of soul-sucking.  Get up earlier, put in an hour of your best effort toward yourself, and then let the vampires have the dregs.

As an evening person, counseling anyone to get up earlier is as much anathema as doing it myself.  But it's not about the clock, it's about skimming the cream for yourself, and this practice has been working for me recently with school.

As the term comes to a close, and this being my birthday, I've decided to apply the principle to myself.  This summer I have one online math class, and hence a big swath of free time has opened up.  I will use it to become both sane and healthy.  To this end I will not outline a training schedule, choose a prize to work for, set a fitness goal or determine a target weight.  At this point, I'd be better off sacrificing a chicken and scrying it's liver to determine a poundage I should aim for anyway.  Fuck that.  I woke up this morning and decided I've been given a new body for my birthday, and my only task is to care for it from now on and discover what it can do.

We've got a history, but it's filled with me not listening to what it has to say and treating it like a mechanical interface with the world that I didn't get to design or choose and so only gave the minimum maintenance.  I've been working on that, most recently with the broken toe a few months back.  Unlike the previous broken foot, I didn't walk through the pain.  I took care of myself as if my body belonged to someone I had compassion for, and every decision I made was different because of that new stance.  Total mindfuck.

As a product of my culture I can't quite wrap my mind around there being no division between mind and body--I'm sure it's a profound way of being, but I can't simply experience the mental and the physical at the same time without interpreting it as a relationship between two complexly intertwined entities.  It's this relationship that has changed, slowly over the years, and then suddenly in the last few weeks.

What I had taken for practicality was more like punishment; indifference was in fact ostracism.  Balanced with a deep vein of scientific curiosity and a daily obliviousness, my attitude on the whole was neutral--but I've always assumed my body would disappoint me, and that it needed to be overridden, coaxed and prodded.  It was a finite resource of dubious quality, to be doled out parsimoniously, and subject by turns to sedentary corruption and injurious force of will.  Turns out I'd decided at some point that my body was an enemy.  Watching my kid discover the wonderment of her own self and what it can do, this is a head trip I got from the outside world along the way.

My body would never fit into the little pink pretty box defined by society, so why care what it looked like?  If I could scrape by with something approaching health with minimal input, that was good enough, right?  And so I decided to embrace a tentative athleticism--I could be strong if nothing else.  It wasn't a 'good' body, but it could be functional.  I began to lift weights several years ago, off and on, always coming back to it because I enjoy the exercise of will as much as muscle and bone.

So then I broke my toe in February, in the middle of the night.  And I'd been reading some Buddhist stuff at the time and as I lay there in bed trying to get back to sleep it occurred to me that I would never think to tell my kid to just go to sleep if she had such pain, why was I telling my body that?  Blew my own fucking mind with that one.

The bone callous is still sore and grumps at the weather, but it's healed fast and well.  Turns out my body responds to compassion, so even if I wanted to stick with the stance of dire practicality, I still can't argue with results.

My body has stopped being an ad-hoc interface with the world and become an animal I've begun to take better care of and would like to do more fun things with.  I see someone dancing or doing parkour and I discard the reflexive thought of "I wish I could have learned that when I was younger/thinner/more flexible".  I purposefully think, "Hey body, does that look like fun to you?  Shall we try that?"

I often feel like a jackass when I think this.  Then I try to frog hop or bear crawl like my kid, and decide that this jackass feeling is really just a spasm of shame I've been taught because my body doesn't fit the little pretty pink box, and it needs to stop interfering with the fun I want to have.  And so it occurred to me this morning that one can also opt out of the little pink pretty box and yet still adorn oneself.  Over the years I'd learned to put on drag when necessary, but pampering, primping, beautifying remained viscerally foreign.  I am not feminine, but that doesn't mean I can only be functional.  Perhaps I could enjoy playing with a certain flavor of fabulous instead. 

My body is a lively animal to be graced with lovely touches--this is not lipsticking a pig, but painting a pony.  I will love her and pet her and call her George.

Today I woke up in a 38 year old body that has been considered a disappointment, been treated accordingly, and been a trooper nonetheless.  Today I decided this is ri-goddamned-diculous.  I have no idea what this body really is or can do, and I've taken advantage of its patience for too long.

For my birthday I'm enrolling in bellydance and kettlebell.  This summer I will learn to swing cannonballs and make my jelly roll.