body image

Hello loves,
Yesterday, the analytics informed me that the algorithms had decided, that this ranks as the MOST read post since 2020 when Covid hit—so I thought you may enjoy a reprise.

Carry on,
xoxJ

“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-times’, right before Covid rocked our reality, 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 for 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 full bag of poop (Ruby’s) all while eliciting deep unexpected sobs of recognition—in public. Sort of. 

If you’d questioned me about my own body image a week earlier I’d have rated it as ‘pretty good’.  Then I heard Jen wrestle with her own emotions while reading her extremely 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 have even been guilty of cranking up the volume on the insults. 

Crepey skin, burgeoning neck waddle, old lady pillow tummy, ugh, HOW IS THIS MY BODY?  

The five stages of grief were quickly overtaking me.

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, 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.

https://yayyayskitchen.com/2017/02/02/30-days-of-love-hate-and-indifference-rice-and-water-experiment-1/

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 down the flight of concrete steps by Ruby. 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 slightly 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 through a grimace, expecting the worst, as I wandered out for coffee and a hug.  “Actually, I’m fine,” I responded by doing a deep lunge and a high kick, twisting and lifting both arms 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, just proof to me just the same that Love really does work miracles y’all. 

Carry on,
xox

“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.

https://yayyayskitchen.com/2017/02/02/30-days-of-love-hate-and-indifference-rice-and-water-experiment-1/

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

Yesterday, I couldn’t help myself, I plastered this all over social media.

”I think midlife is when the universe gently places her hands upon your shoulders, pulls you close, and whispers in your ear:
I’m not screwing around. It’s time. All of this pretending and performing – these coping mechanisms that you’ve developed to protect yourself from feeling inadequate and getting hurt – has to go.

Your armor is preventing you from growing into your gifts. I understand that you needed these protections when you were small. I understand that you believed your armor could help you secure all of the things you needed to feel worthy of love and belonging, but you’re still searching and you’re more lost than ever.

Time is growing short. There are unexplored adventures ahead of you. You can’t live the rest of your life worried about what other people think. You were born worthy of love and belonging. Courage and daring are coursing through you. You were made to live and love with your whole heart. It’s time to show up and be seen.”

~ Brené Brown

Photo: Helen Mirren, age 70  (70 is the “new” middle age.) 😉

First of all, because I find myself smack-dab in the middle of this mid-life thing —I absolutely love what this says. Secondly, are you farking kidding me Helen Mirren? You are my spirit animal!

And last but not least, I love it because my hubby was just telling me the other day how grateful he was feeling due to the fact that for our age (late fifties, early sixties) we seem to be beating the clock pretty darn well, MEANING… except for a few minor things here and there—we’re not sick (as a matter of fact he puts me to shame doing CrossFit like a beast three mornings a week), and we work at maintaining the gift which decent genetics has bestowed upon us, MEANING…without going under the knife we don’t necessarily look our age (but lets get real, we don’t look like Helen Mirren either.)

Now, since it’s all about  Dame Helen, here is the flashback part from a couple of years ago:

Today I met a couple of girlfriends for a leisurely, late breakfast. I hesitate to use the word brunch because that implies Mimosa’s and Bloody Mary’s, pots of hot coffee and the fact that it’s the weekend.

This was simply an egg, toast and tofu rice bowl breakfast, sans the alcohol.
In other words, a Monday.

We hadn’t seen each other for a couple of weeks, so there were lots of hugs, laughter, stories, and sharing of pictures on our phones.

One of my friends showed us a picture of the cute rainbow-colored, teeny-tiny bikini she’d just had the courage to purchase over the weekend. She is a stunning forty-year-old, who, in my humble opinion should be wearing her bikini to the Post Office and Trader Joes, but this was a big step for her.

No more modest little one piece for HER this summer.
She’s gonna rock a bikini, loud and proud. I applaud her for that.

Here’s what Nora Ephron had to say about bikinis:

Anyhow, my friend had been noticing scores of, for lack of a better word, average women, with their voluminous bellies and boobies, and their jiggly thighs, walking up and down the beach with heads held high, like they’re freakin’ Heidi Klum, and she thought: Hey, why the hell not?

Why not indeed!

I love what she said next. I think I’m going to embroider it on a pillow.

“If people don’t like me in my bikini, they don’t have to buy my calendar.”

Bahahahaha!
After we all got done laughing our asses off, my other friend told us the story of her holiday a few years back, in Italy with her friend Luigi. They were in some steamy southern Italian city and decided to go to the local beach.

Because it was Italy and you can’t be held accountable for anything you say, eat or do there, she was also wearing a bikini. (Italy is where Vegas got their slogan, I think Marcus Aurelius said it first)

Somehow, she and Luigi found themselves together on a raft, (this part of the story gets murky. There must be one hell of a reason behind this because my friend is not a “share a raft” kinda gal). Anyhow, there they were, paddling around in the warm, deep blue, Mediterranean Sea.

Luigi then suggests that they paddle (I’m still wondering about this), over to a small island nearby (what?), to visit a couple of his friends on the beach. As they approach, one of the women, as my friend tells it, slowly unfolds herself from seated to standing on her towel.

“Luigi, Mio Caro!” she exclaims, waving her long, tan arm in the air as she slinks toward the shore to greet Luigi in a warm embrace. (Okay, now I get it.)

So… picture this: Luigi is 5’3″.

She is 6 feet tall and shaped like a ripe pear. Large heaving breasts and curvaceously round hips all the color of mahogany bounce toward the shoreline…oh, and she’s topless.

My friend then recounted how Luigi’s face was buried in this woman’s smoldering Italian bosom for the duration of the endless embrace and no one even flinched. As a matter of fact, there was a lot more of this skin on skin hugging and all of the women were older, voluptuous, tan and topless.
Mama Mia!

Not a body issue to be found. OMG! That’s SO Italian! Actually, that’s SO European. What’s OUR Yankee doodle problem?

My friend admitted that in that moment, she was thrilled she wasn’t all covered up in her chastity inducing, IcantbreathbecausethisisSpanx, one piece swimsuit.

Why is it that if we’re over a certain age, or don’t have the bodies of supermodels, we don’t have the courage to flaunt what God gave us and rock that bikini?

Didn’t the paparazzi capture this picture of Dame Helen Mirren looking fucking awesome in a red bikini a few years back? Isn’t she over sixty? Fuck! I worship this woman.

We don’t have to walk around, with boobs a flyin’ like those gutsy and gorgeous Italians, but some body confidence couldn’t hurt.
I say let’s all get over ourselves, and buy bikini’s, or a least something flattering that plays up our good assets.

Come on, Guys too.
It doesn’t have to be a speedo, but it can be trunks that hit above the calf.
Most guys I’ve met, even if they have a belly, have GREAT legs.
Flaunt um!

When we look back at pictures from twenty years ago, we were HOT and we thought otherwise at the time.

We’re never satisfied, so let’s just love and embrace what we have.

I’m not certain I’ll be able to comply. I can’t be expected to hold in my stomach for more than half-hour increments, and if I eat more than a single grape, it’s impossible altogether.

But….it I do,  I have my new motto:
“If people don’t like me in my bikini, they don’t have to buy my calendar.”

Too much?
Xox

Dearest body of mine,
I would like to extend my most heartfelt apology for under appreciating you all of these years and for being your harshest critic.

It is high time I write this. It is way past time actually–horribly overdue by years, maybe even decades.

I’m sorry. I can be such an ass.

I certainly deserve your indifference and yet you are so endlessly forgiving.
I could learn something from your example.

Anyway, I’m here to say…I’m sorry. And I love you.

I have repeatedly ignored your wishes, judged you and even called you names.
Tiny department store dressing rooms, covered in carnival mirrors and bright, unforgiving fluorescent lights can attest to that fact.

Please accept my sincerest apology.

Over the years, I have deprived you of sleep, rattled you with stress, covered over your anxiety by overworking you and then made up for it at times by smoking and drinking too much, (which I’m sure is exactly what you did NOT need).

Other times, I have marinated you in a melancholy laced dissatisfaction until it affected your health, at which point you knocked me on my ass with anxiety attacks, Mono, a lung infection, strep throat or some other malady long enough to get my attention and give me time to re-group and let you heal.

Thank you and I’m sorry.

I have systematically starved and over fed you; brutally sunburned you summer after teenage summer; changed your natural hair color and texture too many times to count, tweezed, waxed and lasered you beyond all reason and basically treated you like shit since, well– since I was old enough to get away with it.

And don’t get me started on that face.
Every time I look in the mirror I only see the flaws–the thin chicken lips and over-plucked eyebrows, several deep divots due to teenage acne and just when it looked as if I had come to terms with it all–alas, the wrinkles.

But you always cut me slack. Don’t you just want to strike back at me? Like with a giant forehead zit, you know, the kind that hurt like a mutha or a stye in my eye?

You should! What the hell’s wrong with me?

Just the fact that my eyes have sight, my legs still carry me and that I can hear and smell all the wonders of the world around me–is a lottery win! You are sturdy and strong, hearty and healthy — but why hasn’t that ever been good enough?

I’m so sorry.

As a young woman I was naturally thin, (another unappreciated lottery win), so of course, I wanted to be curvy.
I never appreciated your stellar metabolism for one minute. I took it for granted, stuffing my face with junk food knowing you’d save me from myself, when suddenly at around age forty you dialed it back so that now I have to exercise like an Olympian and watch what I eat–every morsel registering on the scale.

Well-played. I know, I deserved it.

I apologize for never knowing you were good enough just as you were.
Listen, I’d like to call a truce. Can we be friends?

I finally realize you are not some cosmic mistake or last minute consolation prize. I wasn’t supposed to be Cindy Crawford or Florence Joyner. I get that now.

God chose you for me, or better yet, it was a collaboration between both of us before we were born, for the life we were meant to lead.

You house my soul for crying-out-loud–my very essence. We are a team, you and me, so you’d think I would have held you in higher regard.

I am so sorry.

So now, having said all of that,
I don’t care what you weigh as long as you’re healthy.

I don’t care if you can’t run five miles like you used to, your legs are still strong enough to hike–hikes are good.

I don’t care if you have wrinkles. Together we have worried and we have laughed–we earned those lines by engaging in a life well lived.

I promise to try to drink less alcohol (you keep telling me it no longer agrees with you).

I promise to get you checked out on a regular basis, you know, for tune-ups –like the high-performance vehicle you are and trust that you can fix yourself most of the time.

I promise to get enough sleep.

I promise to keep us stimulated, body, mind, and spirit, well into old age.

I promise to quit looking around to see how other women are aging and just be happy and make the most with what I’ve been gifted.

I promise to listen to you and to pay closer attention to what you’re telling me.

You, my glorious friend, are a work of art and a freaking miracle and every creak, groan and crack are there to remind me to treat you with respect–After all, we are a team.

Love you,
xox

Hey you guys,
Since its Saturday, hopefully you’ll take a minute to read this blog post by best-selling author Joshilyn Jackson about her love for the fat girl in hot yoga class.

Enjoy your weekend my loves,
Carry on,
xox

An Open Letter to the Fat Girl I Saw at Hot Yoga in New York City
Thursday, 29th of December 2011 at 09:58:47 AM
Dear Fat Girl I Saw at Hot Yoga in New York City,

The Fat Girl You Saw at Hot Yoga in New York City

http://www.joshilynjackson.com/ftk/?p=1675

Today I met a couple of girlfriends for a leisurely late breakfast; I hesitate to use the word brunch because that word implies Mimosa’s and Bloody Mary’s, pots of hot coffee and the fact that it’s the weekend.

This was simply an egg, toast and tofu rice bowl breakfast, sans the alcohol.
In other words, a Monday.

We hadn’t seen each other for a couple of weeks, so there were lots of hugs, laughter, stories, and sharing of pictures on our phones.

One of my friends showed us a picture of the cute rainbow-colored, teeny-tiny little bikini that she’d just had the courage to purchase over the weekend. She is a stunning forty-year-old, who, in my humble opinion should be wearing her bikini to the Post Office and Trader Joes, but this was a big step for her.

No more modest little one piece for HER this summer.
She’s gonna rock a bikini, loud and proud. I applaud her for that.
Here’s what Nora Ephron had to say about that:

Anyhow, my friend had been noticing scores of, for lack of a better word, average women, with their lusciously voluminous bellies and boobies, and their jiggly thighs, walking up and down the beach with heads held high, like they were freaking Heidi Klum, and she thought: Hey, why the hell not?

Why not indeed!

I love what she said next. I think I’m going to embroider it on a pillow.

“If people don’t like me in my bikini, they don’t have to buy my calendar.”

Bahahahaha!
After we all got done laughing our asses off, my other friend told us the story of her holiday a few years back, in Italy with her friend Luigi. They were in some steamy southern Italian city and decided to go to the local beach.

Because it was Italy and you can’t be held accountable for anything you say, eat or do there, she was also wearing a bikini. (Italy is where Vegas got their slogan, I think Marcus Aurelius said it first)

Somehow, she and Luigi found themselves together on a raft, (this part of the story gets murky. There must be one hell of a reason behind this because my friend is not a “share a raft” kinda gal). Anyhow, there they are, paddling around in the warm, deep blue, Mediterranean Sea.

Luigi suggests that they paddle (I’m still wondering about this), over to a small island nearby (what?), to visit a couple of his friends on the beach. As they approach, one of the women, as my friend tells it, literally unfolds herself, slowly moving from seated to standing on her towel.

“Luigi, Mio caro!” she exclaims, waving her hand in the air. She then slinks toward the shore to greet Luigi in a warm embrace. (Okay, now I get it.)

Luigi is 5’3″.

She is 6′ tall and shaped like a ripe pear, with large heaving breasts and curvaceous round hips—all the color of mahogany…oh, and she is topless.

My friend recounted how Luigi’s face was buried in this woman’s smoldering Italian cleavage for the duration of the embrace and no one even flinched. As a matter of fact, all the woman were older, voluptuous, tan and topless.
Mama Mia!

Not a body issue to be found.

In that moment my friend was thrilled she wasn’t all covered up in her chastity inducing, Grandma Moses one piece swimsuit.

OMG! That’s SO Italian! Actually that’s SO European. What’s OUR Yankee doodle problem?

If we’re over a certain age, or don’t have the bodies of super models, why can’t we have the courage to flaunt what God gave us and rock that bikini?

Didn’t the paparazzi capture this picture of Dame Helen Mirren looking fucking awesome in a red bikini a few years back? Isn’t she over sixty? Fuck! I worship her for that.

We don’t have to walk around, with boobs a flyin’ like those gutsy and gorgeous Italians, but some body confidence couldn’t hurt.
I say let’s all get over ourselves, and buy bikini’s, or a least something flattering that plays up our good assets.

Come on, Guys too.
Doesn’t have to be a speedo, but it can be trunks that hit above the calf.
Most guys I’ve met, even if they have a belly, have GREAT legs.
Flaunt um!

When we look back at pictures from twenty years ago, we were HOT and we thought otherwise at the time.

We’re never satisfied, so let’s love and embrace what we have.

I’m not certain I’ll be able to comply. I can’t be expected to hold in my stomach for more than half-hour increments, and if I eat more than one grape, it’s impossible altogether.

But….now I have my new motto:
“If people don’t like me in my bikini, they don’t have to buy my calendar.”

Too much?
Xox