Nine. Twenty-seven. Sixty.
July 29, 2012 § 19 Comments
At nine, my body was an embarrassing collection of ill-matched parts and motions. Skinny. Uncoordinated. Awkward. I would have hidden all of myself behind my back if I could have, not just my hands.
At nine, I sensed that I was either invisible, or the center of the universe. No one saw me. No one saw anything but me.
I was never sure which was worse.
At nine, this body of mine did nothing particularly well. I could not cartwheel, or run fast, or walk with grace. I couldn’t even whistle.
Although to be fair, I was not bad on a bicycle.
I could stand on the seat. I could put my feet on the handlebars. My nine-year-old body did tricks at the upper end of the neighborhood bike-trick scale.
None of the kids were significantly better.
A few were gratifyingly worse.
At twenty-seven, my body surprised me by getting pregnant. Still thin, I resembled a rope with a knot in it. As I watched, my body was taken over by something that grew and pounded the inside wall of me. Sometimes the baby seemed to sit upright, Buddha-like. Sometimes it chose to lie down, assuming the shape of a watermelon growing in open sunlight.
I am placid by nature, but the life inhabiting my body was restless and pointy. When I was seven months pregnant, my husband took the only nude photo of me ever shot. My stomach, stretched seemingly as taut as it would go, looks glossy.
I stare at the photo and wonder, who is this young woman? Even her dreaming face seems unfamiliar—judging by her expression, she is somewhere I’ve forgotten how to go. But I recognize the skinny limbs, those are mine. In the photo I resemble a balloon only half-blown up.
At sixty, my body is a different kind of thin, like doorknobs in a sack. As some essential padding disappears, the works become visible. The skin that holds the whole enterprise together sags comfortably.
At sixty, I know my body’s limits. I no longer push it to impress a watchful universe. At sixty, I know the universe is too busy to pay attention to the fall of a single sparrow.
I’ve given up on whistling.
But my body impresses me by continuing to do, not the show-offy, but the necessary. It gets me up and down off the floor to play with my grandson. It carries me around my neighborhood in long strides. It still holds a voice that can sing with joy, and I’m grateful.
Without this body the world I love would slip away.
Without this body I’d become a briefly lingering memory, little more than the after-image of the sun when you close your eyes.
Note: This is Fran doing a carwheel at 60, she couldn’t get the photo to stick to her comment but it was too good to waste. What can I say? If you got it you got it.
Like doorknobs in a sack…awesome! You are one brilliant lady, no matter which age you happen to be gracing with your presence!
I never could do cartwheels either.
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Oh, Liz, who were those girls who could do cartwheels? All my life I’ve hung with the girls who couldn’t. They’ve always seemed more interesting.
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Happy Birthday, treasured lady. Richard D.
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Darn Richard, you caught me. I am sneaking this in before August 28th when I would have to write 61.
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Love your writing — as usual. Adrian — why not come to yoga class with me? Genevieve is pregnant, but still leads an uplifting class for young & old. My body actually feels much better since I’ve been in this class. I never do the hard poses — just the easy and restful ones 🙂 since I am the laziest person in class — you will look good no matter what you do. 🙂
That is my gift to the yoga class–taking up the position of most embarrassing 🙂
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Thanks for the offer Mary. I do my own interpretation of yoga every day in my living room (I am always the worst in the class). All in all I feel as if age is going easy on me, but there is no way to dodge the cumulative effects of time forever. I just do what I can to slow the process.
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I did cartwheels. I could do the monkey bars hand-over-hand, too. I read well and lots. I wrote stories and drew pictures. But nobody seemed to notice or care that I excelled in these things, so neither did I. I couldn’t play baseball or volleyball and although I did memorize the multiplication tables, I didn’t memorize addition/subtraction facts until I began teaching them. Not having those skills mattered more than the skills I did have – like doing cartwheels and reading.
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It always seems that the skills we have are the also-rans, that the prized skills belong to somebody else (and I’m sure that somebody else felt the same).
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No cartwheelies for me, either! Girls with substantial boobs and “periods” at ten just didn’t do them! I long ago realized that the combination of German/Scottish/Cherokee genes doesn’t make for slim bodies, but they sure help with he muscles needed if you decide to sing opera!
MLS
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And if you want to dodge osteoporosis. “Skinny bones” turns out to be a literal term.
I would love to hear you sing opera MLS.
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I’ve never been able to do cartwheels or whistle, either. But, I was a pretty good bike rider when I was young, too! I enjoy reading your blogs!
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…and you can sing.
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You’ll have to take that back Adrian, this is me 5 years ago when I was 60 and just learned that our daily newspaper signed the contract to have me do a weekly column, “Backyard Adventures.” I was so excited I felt like doing cartwheels.I was surprised to find out that I still could! I still love doing the column at age 65, but I haven’t tried the cartwheels since. Hmmm
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Our birthday month is almost upon us, Adrian. So glad to know we no longer have to consider cartwheels–ah, the advantages of aging. I seem to be your opposite body build, one I’ve often described as German-Russian peasant stock, although some years stockier than others. Yet, this body has served me well for it has endured all of my requests.
Karen
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I love your phrase “endured all of my requests.” In some ways our bodies are like faithful dogs. They’re not sure why we ask for what we do but they’re game to try.
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Hmm– been wondering lately if I could actually do a cartwheel . What do you think ? Would my arms fall down or would I break bones? Maybe try it on the beach in the sand ? Haven’t even tried it in maybe 20 years. Anybody know the answer? I’m not skinny, but not fat — my legs are stronger than my arms. Would it be better to try it fast so centrifical force would kind of whip me over? I can lift a 50 lb basset hound into the backseat dog hammock– so my arms are not too whimpy . What do you think of this cartwheel thing?
Don’t want to break any bones or kill myself –but think this really could be fun– to fly upside down again 🙂
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Mary, if anyone can do it I’d bet on you. As I remember it, you were the senior half of the mother/daughter hundred mile an hour team.
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your doin’ alright
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I’m working on that dance step right now!
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