A few days ago, at the Gym, I was watching two older women catch up after a swim.
They stood on the roughly carpeted floor of the locker room in dripping old-lady bathing suits. I was captured by one woman in particular, the one with her back to me. Soft grey hair hung to her shoulders and gathered in heavy wet curls around her neck. Long, still-strong legs bowed in and then out again; bunches of inner-knee-extra-skin cellulite touching at a smoosh point mid-leg. The chafe looked comforting and not uncomfortable (Like the reassuring pressure of an old pillow. A frayed blanket). Her heels were knobs of thick callous and her bunions seemed to balance her, bird like, an old quirky ostrich. The suit, navy with tiny white dots, was big on her in a way that only years of wear can create. Its over-modest skirt hung unevenly at her mid-thigh. Upper arms like bread dough (white, glistening, yeasty) shook and quaked as she made her point. I imagined her eyes rimmed chlorine red shining as a wide and grinning mouth smiled at her friend.
I watched this snapshot unfold as I diapered my daughter and powdered her chubby little thighs. I was sneaking glances at myself in the mirror to see if I looked like a fraud. Work-out me hasn't been around in a while. I was too busy being pregnant and then not pregnant and then exhausted to even think about hitting the gym. I watched these old women-gleeful in their conversation-laughing at the latest secret they shared. I watched them and realized that they were standing, in the middle of the room, for all to see, in their bathing suits. They were not wearing towels.
They didn't care.
No one was looking.
No one was evaluating or critiquing or judging.
And I was jealous.
And then, then, I put the envy aside and adopted instead a sort of an awe. A respect. A realization that these two older women didn't care because there was nothing to care about. Who knows what their bodies had been through. Who knows if they had borne children or walked to work or lay in repose. They could have battled cancer. They could have hiked the Appalachian. Their hands could have held a dying parent or chopped routine garlic.
There was beauty.
There was strength.
There was utter indifference, in that moment, to those around them.
And I was thankful that I got to see.
3 comments:
Sara, only you can make grandma arm flab sound interesting :)!
You know, I sort of felt this way when I turned 50. Not that I didn't care anymore but that, somehow, I had arrived at a turning point. A place where I could be less critical and more content. A place that acknowledged from where I had come and where I still wanted to go. And it was liberating. You may remember that we talked about it. At the same time that growing older brings challenges, it also brings many gifts. Grandma is a fine example of that. And, my sweet girl, I wish that contentment for you. But not back of knee cellulite. I mean, there's a limit...
Well done ... beautifully written. Your gift to speak the obvious that would elsewise go untold is q much needed talent ... that said, I also have to add that ...
these are reflections of a young, toned woman who, humbly makes this assessment while resting on a bench with her fresh little cherub. The perspective of the generations is awesoe. What is also of interest to me, is that you are making these comments, while apparaentty, for the mememnt at least, oblivious that you do not bear any outward appearance of having born one, let alone two , cildren. You definately caught the beatury and irony of the picture before you.
Ah, you are a blessed person, Sara.
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