I am eating fluffy, bright yellow scrambled eggs littered with small cut pieces of fresh tomato, with sliced banana on the side when the first notification appears. I carefully sip the hot espresso I made before I swipe open the app.
It’s 10 a.m. or so here, which means it’s 6 a.m. or so, there. There. The land of my people and also, comparison, stress, and unrealistic expectations. Of pressure. So much pressure.
I gaze down at this beautiful breakfast I’ve made, at a pace that I rarely enjoy, wondering if I’m done enough. Am I satiated to the point of joyfully pushing the plate away? Is my belly filled enough that it won’t be the sour taste that fills my mouth or the churning in my guts that render me incapable of consuming these last few bites? Is it possible that I’m just a comfortable state of done?
I slowly push the plate, decorated with colorful fish, to the center of the clear glass topped table. Taking a deep breath, as if preparing myself for a cold plunge, I swipe the app open.
The words mostly blur together on the screen, but I see enough. “It’s shorts weather” proclaimed by men and women alike. Images of sunglass clad faces, smiles bright, visible sunlight glinting off plastic rims and sweaty foreheads.
For whom? I think, or perhaps say aloud. Maybe I yell this into the peaceful quiet of this beautiful little apartment I’ve occupied for only a handful of days.
It doesn’t matter if I scream, as I’m alone. There is no audience to witness this outburst, and so, any volume is acceptable. And still, my expression is polite. No, perfect.
I don’t wear shorts anymore, not really. At first it was a subconscious decision. A gravitation towards what felt like chic aging. And then, somewhere along the way, I became resolute, firmer on the topic. It became something of a mantra- a beacon of self-preservation. And maybe, if I’m gut wrenching honest in that way that feels awfully like a paper cut, it felt like the smartest self-handicapping I had ever employed.
Remove the fodder for gossip and judgment. Erase evidence that may be used against me. Perhaps it’s just another demented form of hiding in plain sight.
I’ve watched so many videos of women joyfully expressing “to hell with your cellulite.” They’ve told me that it’s normal. It’s the way this aging thing works. What’s to be ashamed of? And, who gives a shit anyway?
Mostly these women are settled down in some way, and still, their freedom feels inspirational in a moment. I decide I will be a version of myself that doesn’t vapidly connect to a physical hyper-fixation. I will live so brilliantly that it will not matter.
Except that it does. And I find myself wondering, as I get another texted advertisement from another spa trying to sell me an anti-cellulite treatment (lies), if these free women stand in front of available full length mirrors and tug on their loose skin. I question if they gaze upon other women’s legs- not with lust or desire, save coveting their unblemished skin. Have they found peace with their decision or are they also tormented and putting on a brave public face?
Also, I’m grateful. Truly. I’m so appreciative for the way these imperfect legs carry me. The way they let me, help me, run, walk, hike. If given the choice between healing the arthritis ravaging the ever-diminishing spaces between my bones and erasing the pockmarks on my tights, I’d choose the former. Easily and without great inner debate.
Still, I’d be lying if I said I don’t somewhat resent shorts season. I will, on occasion, don a nice long baggy denim short, a tailored Bermuda short, or a lycra blend bike short- but none of it brings me unfettered joy. Mostly there’s always some low lying anxiety present that breathlessly whispers in my ear: Make sure they stay in place. Don’t let them shrink in the wash.
The world is so goddamn fraught right now. People have no food, no place to call home, no feeling of safety. There is physical and mental illness everywhere and so many other versions of catastrophe. And, I remain clinging to an empty sentiment about my appearance.
For shame.
What gall.
What privilege.
I’ve made progress. I take the photos and don’t examine them self-critically. I live joyfully in the moments I am blessed with regularly. I give myself perspective when required.
Yet, I know it’s this thing that lives inside me, and without giving it air to breathe, it doesn’t suffocate as you might think. It grows, like some anaerobic bacteria, some fermenting microbes. It becomes something too big, too overwhelming, too toxic.
So, I admit this weakness, this torture exercise, not because it harms me, but because it frees me.
For a moment.
For a day.
For longer.
I close the app now and stand, walking in a soft, old t shirt and underwear, to the window overlooking the wild Atlantic. Not my ocean and yet, mine. Shared. The water is rough but delicious, really. An invitation to let go, for now.
I press my hand against the cool glass and then quickly bring it away, watching my ghostly handprint fade. Looking out at the majestic, asymmetrical cliffs of Azenhas Do Mar, I see teeny figures. Locals. Tourists. I know not of their bodies, their worries, their joys.
Closing my eyes, I feel the warmth of the very present sun filling each space on my forty-five year old face.
Fuck shorts season.
Tis my season.
X
L.
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