It may not be easy being green, but I'm willing to bet it is a hell of a lot easier than being nude.
By Susan Creamer Joy - Wednesday 14 Dec 2011
It is early in the morning but I am wide awake and exercising my lean digits across my well-worn keyboard. I have already punished the rest of my body on that damned elliptical and decided it was only fair to exercise my fingers as well. A reasonable assumption would be that I am an equal-opportunity masochist.
Of course, this is not entirely true. In reality I find it necessary to make mention of the lean composition of my fingers because they are the only part of my entire body that totally conform to that descriptor, and I need to remind myself of that visually redemptive fact sometimes; particularly now that I have noticed that the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated has somehow found its way back among the other, less threatening periodicals in the master bathroom.
Until such time as it again becomes passé and I notice that Consumer Reports or Men’s Health have worked their way once more to the fore of the magazine bin on the floor, I am doomed to absorb the stark contrast between the reflection in the mirror of my gently-padded, gravitationally-challenged silhouette and whatever narrow, nubile goddess graces the annual cover and glistens behind me like some petty, vindictive, under-clad angel of Christmas' Past.
Not that I was an actual contender for a magazine cover even in my younger version, but at least youth gave me a fighting chance by placing the laws of gravity squarely in my corner, gamely mopping my brow then continually giving me a rousing shove to get back into the ring.
Looking at myself today, it is obvious that at some point in my distant past the bell rang indicating that the match had ended. Evidently, I must have been too busy packing school lunches, attending little league games, school plays, ballet classes, preparing meals, picking up dog poop, dropping off play dates and scrubbing toilets to notice.
However, based on the battered visual before me it would appear that it was a knockout and one not necessarily in my favor; and as I reluctantly regard my mirrored replica, I am made all too aware that I am now left with a body that has taken one too many C-sections to the groin, sleepless nights that have registered as dark half-moons under my eyes; and years of maternal stoicism carved like a fine-lined topographic map of domestic and personal upheavals canvassing my vintage countenance.
A long, candid appraisal and parenthetical gasp preceded my awkward navigation to the shower, while my glossy-papered nemesis gloated in all of her tabloid glory from her freshly-scoured corner of the lavatory ring (compliments of the aged contender, thank you), and I realized in that pathetically self-conscious moment that even Rocky Balboa must look better today than I do.
Still, I am fully aware that when a door closes, a window supposedly opens, and in theory this is true. I have discovered such windows flying open with architectural precision, as I have also observed the corresponding slamming of both the doors of options as well as those of opportunity – which does leave me wondering if, perhaps, God has some obsession with irony.
Why would it be that just as our eyes have adjusted to the shining advantages of living by the Golden Rule and we now completely comprehend the brilliant logic behind the principles of letting things be, rising above pettiness and focusing our energies on giving more than we receive; He would order the commensurate deterioration of our bodies, consequentially disabling our ability to fully benefit from all that we have learned?
There is bottomless incongruity in the apparent fact that just when we reach the age and stage where we’ve got so much to offer, we are also at the age and stage when nobody wants it.
Sadly, it seems all too apparent that the social and cultural preoccupation is decidedly fixed upon the perfected form of the Sports Illustrated swim suit models and that whatever subtle treasures of coherent thought these beauties may harbor between their perfect ears is of secondary interest to most; regardless of whether or not they are grazing the edges of gravity’s tenacious grasp or yet to fully enter the salivating fray.
Truthfully? I am not entirely sure why this is the road my brain ambled down this morning. I don’t really care about the swimsuit models and I am fairly well tenured in the art of acceptance — at least enough not to let myself become seriously disturbed by anything radically defined by the laws of physics and biology.
I suppose that, in part, it is because I don’t want to explore anymore dark corners for a while and felt that a little bit of levity was necessary. After the last couple of years, my life was beginning to resemble a really bad country western song where it is always raining, you’re misunderstood and dang lonely, the kid’s in jail, the dog dies, and your man’s done run off with the check-out gal from the local Piggly Wiggly.
I made that last one up. We don’t have a Piggly Wiggly here.
Not only do I want to avoid sounding as though I can only see through a glass darkly, but I would rather be roped to a honey tree in a forest of Black Bears than to think my words bring to mind the refrain of some song belted out at The Grand Ole Opry. My sincerest apologies to any and all country music aficionados out there. For whatever reason, it just isn’t my thing.
Actually, I’m still looking for my thing, and given the image reflected in my mirror this morning, I’d better get my ass in gear. Time is definitely flagging me with a perceivable deadline, which is a little annoying considering the fact that I feel I am only just now getting started.
I wonder how the wives of the biblical greats like Noah and Methuselah coped with aging given that their life span so greatly exceeded what has now become our rather short expiration date? One thing is certain: they managed to live hundreds of years a piece without the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition undermining their weathered self-esteem and likely felt far more supported within a populace clothed in roomy tunics and sandals.
In light of our present state of cultural and spiritual deprivation globally, we might want to consider the benefits from doing without it as well. What could possibly go wrong by embracing a simpler, humbler, less superficially-oriented society? Loin cloths might even return as a fashion mainstay.
Oh, God forbid.
Of course, this is not entirely true. In reality I find it necessary to make mention of the lean composition of my fingers because they are the only part of my entire body that totally conform to that descriptor, and I need to remind myself of that visually redemptive fact sometimes; particularly now that I have noticed that the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated has somehow found its way back among the other, less threatening periodicals in the master bathroom.
Until such time as it again becomes passé and I notice that Consumer Reports or Men’s Health have worked their way once more to the fore of the magazine bin on the floor, I am doomed to absorb the stark contrast between the reflection in the mirror of my gently-padded, gravitationally-challenged silhouette and whatever narrow, nubile goddess graces the annual cover and glistens behind me like some petty, vindictive, under-clad angel of Christmas' Past.
Not that I was an actual contender for a magazine cover even in my younger version, but at least youth gave me a fighting chance by placing the laws of gravity squarely in my corner, gamely mopping my brow then continually giving me a rousing shove to get back into the ring.
Looking at myself today, it is obvious that at some point in my distant past the bell rang indicating that the match had ended. Evidently, I must have been too busy packing school lunches, attending little league games, school plays, ballet classes, preparing meals, picking up dog poop, dropping off play dates and scrubbing toilets to notice.
However, based on the battered visual before me it would appear that it was a knockout and one not necessarily in my favor; and as I reluctantly regard my mirrored replica, I am made all too aware that I am now left with a body that has taken one too many C-sections to the groin, sleepless nights that have registered as dark half-moons under my eyes; and years of maternal stoicism carved like a fine-lined topographic map of domestic and personal upheavals canvassing my vintage countenance.
A long, candid appraisal and parenthetical gasp preceded my awkward navigation to the shower, while my glossy-papered nemesis gloated in all of her tabloid glory from her freshly-scoured corner of the lavatory ring (compliments of the aged contender, thank you), and I realized in that pathetically self-conscious moment that even Rocky Balboa must look better today than I do.
Still, I am fully aware that when a door closes, a window supposedly opens, and in theory this is true. I have discovered such windows flying open with architectural precision, as I have also observed the corresponding slamming of both the doors of options as well as those of opportunity – which does leave me wondering if, perhaps, God has some obsession with irony.
Why would it be that just as our eyes have adjusted to the shining advantages of living by the Golden Rule and we now completely comprehend the brilliant logic behind the principles of letting things be, rising above pettiness and focusing our energies on giving more than we receive; He would order the commensurate deterioration of our bodies, consequentially disabling our ability to fully benefit from all that we have learned?
There is bottomless incongruity in the apparent fact that just when we reach the age and stage where we’ve got so much to offer, we are also at the age and stage when nobody wants it.
Sadly, it seems all too apparent that the social and cultural preoccupation is decidedly fixed upon the perfected form of the Sports Illustrated swim suit models and that whatever subtle treasures of coherent thought these beauties may harbor between their perfect ears is of secondary interest to most; regardless of whether or not they are grazing the edges of gravity’s tenacious grasp or yet to fully enter the salivating fray.
Truthfully? I am not entirely sure why this is the road my brain ambled down this morning. I don’t really care about the swimsuit models and I am fairly well tenured in the art of acceptance — at least enough not to let myself become seriously disturbed by anything radically defined by the laws of physics and biology.
I suppose that, in part, it is because I don’t want to explore anymore dark corners for a while and felt that a little bit of levity was necessary. After the last couple of years, my life was beginning to resemble a really bad country western song where it is always raining, you’re misunderstood and dang lonely, the kid’s in jail, the dog dies, and your man’s done run off with the check-out gal from the local Piggly Wiggly.
I made that last one up. We don’t have a Piggly Wiggly here.
Not only do I want to avoid sounding as though I can only see through a glass darkly, but I would rather be roped to a honey tree in a forest of Black Bears than to think my words bring to mind the refrain of some song belted out at The Grand Ole Opry. My sincerest apologies to any and all country music aficionados out there. For whatever reason, it just isn’t my thing.
Actually, I’m still looking for my thing, and given the image reflected in my mirror this morning, I’d better get my ass in gear. Time is definitely flagging me with a perceivable deadline, which is a little annoying considering the fact that I feel I am only just now getting started.
I wonder how the wives of the biblical greats like Noah and Methuselah coped with aging given that their life span so greatly exceeded what has now become our rather short expiration date? One thing is certain: they managed to live hundreds of years a piece without the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition undermining their weathered self-esteem and likely felt far more supported within a populace clothed in roomy tunics and sandals.
In light of our present state of cultural and spiritual deprivation globally, we might want to consider the benefits from doing without it as well. What could possibly go wrong by embracing a simpler, humbler, less superficially-oriented society? Loin cloths might even return as a fashion mainstay.
Oh, God forbid.