There is more than one way to love a body.
“Love your body! Strip away the things that hide you! Be proud of how you look!” The woman behind the table on the campus lawn can’t hide her disappointment when I take her flier, thank her for what they’re doing, and then walk away, still fully covered from neck to foot. “Your body is beautiful – you don’t have to be ashamed,” she yells as I walk away.
That’s true. Thank you, random stranger, for the compliment (and the reminder).
But my skin is the color of almond milk, and it is sensitive to chemicals. So I can expose it to the sun during my twenty-minute trek across campus to prove to you that I love it. I would probably enjoy the feeling of the sun and the warm wind…for about ten minutes. Then I would burn. First my shoulders, then my arms, then my legs. I cover them because it’s hard to find a sunscreen that doesn’t break me out (at least one that doesn’t cost a kajillion dollars an ounce – that, I save for my face). I love my body, so I protect it.
Sometimes, body love looks like covering up.
“Do you want a brownie? Come on – you know you do!” The resident waves his hand over the plate he’s holding, causing the amazing smell to waft in my direction. It’s the week before Christmas, and he has been practicing. He wiggles his eyebrows, clearly proud of his baking skills.
They smell delicious. I kinda do want a brownie.
But I remember that I am having dinner with a friend this evening, and that about an hour after I eat that brownie, I will feel sluggish and get a great big dose of the physical don’t-wannas. It only takes a few moments of reflection on how feeling that way will make me want to cancel my dinner plans and take a nap instead. So I say, “No, thank you. They smell fantastic, though. Good job!”
Sometimes, body love looks like saying no to things we want.
“Are you sure you want to wear that? It’s a little…sheer. Don’t you want to dress more modestly?” We are getting ready to go out, and it’s the first time she’s been to the club with me. She is nervous, but she doesn’t want to say so. It’s interesting how insecurities come out.
I know she’s anxious and that this comment isn’t really about me, so I swallow the lecture on how modesty is not a measure of how much skin I’m showing. I look in the mirror, and I like what I see. It’s the end of summer, and I can see the definition in my arms that inevitably happens after three months of lifting toddlers full-time. And this is the only shirt that is clean that shows off the tiny coffee cup that my friend drew on my shoulder earlier that day. And I look adorable. So I decide that context matters. Intention matters. I reply, “It’s fine for the club. But you don’t have to go sheer. You wear what makes you comfortable.”
Sometimes, body love looks like showing it off a little.
“Where do you want to go for our one-on-one?” It’s Friday, and it’s been a hard week. It’s balancing two jobs and having fever and the world is discriminatory and awful and oh, by the way – Jesus is dying today.
So I recognize that my mood is not about food. Not really.
But kinda.
The cereal I had for breakfast was filling, but the salad I picked at for lunch was lackluster and unsubstantial. Why did I even bring lunch to work with me, especially one that I knew would be so disappointing? I know my body and its needs, and I knew the sad salad would not satisfy any of them. I am as hangry as I was before I ate it. It doesn’t help that I have a great supper – a veggie frittata on a bed of baby spring greens – planned for tonight, the very thought of which is making me salivate as I type this.
So where do I want to go? Hypnotic. Comfort food, right next to Cultivar’s really good coffee.
Chicken biscuit, get in my belly.
Is this the healthiest choice I could possibly make? No. Will it feed my soul and brighten my day and help me avoid the inevitable food coma that the huge donut I really want to eat would cause? Yes. And fried chicken is good funeral food, so while it seems silly to type that, it seems an appropriate meal for Good Friday.
Sometimes, body love looks like the occasional indulgence.
I’m reading Embracing the Body by Tara M. Owens, and what has captured me so far are the stories of Jesus and the ways he used his body to comfort, heal, protect, and nourish. He used his body, and it didn’t mean the same things his culture thought it did. He touched people (and allowed them to touch him) in ways that were deemed inappropriate. He accepted kindness from and dined with people he wasn’t supposed to be seen with. He loved righteously and physically. He loved as God incarnate. He loved as God with us.
Sometimes, love looks different than we expect.
There is more than one way to love.
M. Suzanne Terry 