A Story About Love—And Falling Down the Stairs
“I have been so mean to my body, outright hateful. I disparage her and call her names. I loathe parts of her and withhold care. I insist on physical standards she can never reach, for that is not how she is made, but I detest her weakness for not pulling it off. No matter what she accomplishes, I’m never happy with her.”
~Jen Hatmaker Fierce, Free and Full of Love
In the ‘before time’, right before Covid hit, I was listening to Jen Hatmaker’s book while on my morning walks with Ruby, our six-year-old boxer who, ironically enough, has the body confidence of a super-model. Most of the book had me laughing. Other parts had me shaking my fist at Audible and the fact that I couldn’t dogear a particular page or highlight every other paragraph with yellow marker.
Like the one above.
This one stopped me in my tracks. It had me fumbling to hit rewind while juggling a bag full of poop at the same time eliciting deep unexpected sobs of recognition—in public.
If you’d asked me about body image a week earlier I’d have told you mine was pretty good. And then I heard Jen struggle with her own emotions while reading her very vulnerable admissions without choking on her own snot. Seriously. She did a far better job at keeping the full-blown ugly crying at bay than I did.
I too had been hateful.
I’d set unattainable standards.
I’d done all of the shitty stuff you can do to a body and as I’ve aged, I may be guilty of cranking up the volume on the insults.
Crepy skin, burgeoning neck waddle, old lady pillow tummy, ugh, HOW IS THIS MY BODY?
The five stages of grief were quickly setting in.
Denial— (Catches own reflection in storefront window) That’s not me, it can’t be. That’s my mother!
Anger— (Age spots appear as if by magic) Seriously? You’ve GOT to be kidding me!
Bargaining— If I drink the celery juice can I eat nothing but carbs on the weekends?
Depression— I feel bad about my boobs which are now a pair of 38 longs.
But I hadn’t quite gotten to the acceptance stage. Until I heard the words she wrote. THAT changed everything for me.
I apologized to my body. Profusely. Every morning and every night.
I saw her for what she was, my ally, not my enemy.
I looked at all the evidence and discovered she has ONLY ever had my best interests at heart.
So, I started to lavish her with praise and compliments and love. After a while, it became a habit.
Then the pandemic hit and being over sixty I was considered to be at higher risk of complications so I upped my little ritual to include extreme gratitude for my continued good health.
Every morning when I woke up, I’d thank her for her stamina on the hikes, her cheerful disposition in the face of looming uncertainty, and her strong immune system. And as the Covid numbers in Los Angles rose, I assured her that even if she caught it, I wouldn’t hold it against her, on the contrary, we would fight it together and she would be fine.
It reminded me of experiments researchers have done with water and plants, the ones where they verbally abuse them or shower them with praise —and then study the results—which are astounding.
The ones that are praised, thrive, while the ones that are subjected to hateful speech/emotions, literally wither and die.
Which brings me to yesterday and my fall down the stairs.
Well, I didn’t so much fall, as get pulled by Ruby down the flight of concrete steps that lead to her daily free-range walk. To be fair, she’d spotted a discarded half-eaten cheese sandwich at the bottom, and who among us hasn’t lost their mind and sprinted toward cheese? Nevertheless, it happened too fast to even let go of the leash so I was knocked on my ass and pulled down the entire flight of stairs on my back until I managed to get her to stop—by yelling STOP at the top of my lungs. I know it was loud because it echoed back up the stairs and out onto the street before waking the dead.
Lying there in a heap, I assessed the damage. Ankle twisted, elbows, ass and back bruised and battered, but eventually, I was able to get up and walk —which I took as a good sign. Reflexively, I thanked my body for not breaking a hip or anything else for that matter and went on with my day. But as the hours passed, a deep soreness set in. At about seven in the evening I felt as if I’d been hit by a caravan of trucks carrying elephants. “Wait until tomorrow,” my husband warned, handing me the Motrin. “The next day is the worst.” Later, in bed, I tried not to move a muscle, lest I scream and wake the dog.
“You’ve got this,” I told her, lying there together in the dark. “Nothing is broken, which in itself is a miracle because YOU ARE A BEAST! You’re sixty-fucking-two and you fell down a flight of concrete stairs and barely missed a beat! You ROCK!” I tried to shift position and moaned. Everything hurt. Even my hair.
“I will take care of you,” I reassured her. “If you need bed rest, I will make sure you get it. If you need CBD rub or Motrin at regular intervals, you can count on me. We are in this together because I love you—now go to sleep!”
“How do you feel?” my husband asked me this morning as I wandered out for coffee and a hug. His face was a twisted grimace, bracing for the worst. “Actually, I’m fine,” I said, twisting and turning to prove my point.
And I am. Fine. No aches, no pains, no bruises of any kind to speak of. I give all of the credit to my body and our recently renewed love affair.
Not a big story, not life or death, but proof to me just the same that Love really does work miracles y’all.
Carry on,
xox
Dominator 
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