It's seeing old lovers from the days before becoming a mother that make me most aware of how my body has changed. A couple years ago, I flew to California to visit another old lover. Even though he was a father himself, laying in bed that first night together after not seeing each other in over ten years, he looked at my body and said, "I remember when your breasts were small and firm. I loved those breasts."
That’s now how I remember it. I remember endless jokes about the size of my small breasts during our long relationship. One day he held up his hands below my chest, somewhat framing me, and said, “From here down, you have a great body.” Then he moved his hands above my breasts and around my head and simply said, “Tsk, tsk.”
After four years of nursing, four years of Ania grabbing my breasts for comfort, four years of another life this old lover knew nothing about, he looked at those breasts that were once his, and lamented the loss of youthfulness, and I knew there would be no more visits between us.
As a young girl, my grandmother liked to make references about my smiling eyes, laughing about the crow's feet that have been around my eyes for as long as I remember. Over the years, those footprints seem to have stretched farther down my face, and have left deeper imprints, less symbolic of smiling eyes, and more a representation of too much sun.
I find myself buying cosmetics that I never dreamed I'd purchase. I rarely walk into a store and buy these products. Instead, I use the phone and place a mail order. There are ads everywhere for age-defying potions, yet when the package comes in the mail, I feel like I’ve ordered sex toys and sneak the box into the house and into my bathroom, hoping my daughter won’t notice. I camouflage this entire age-defying crème experience; yet, these crèmes never camouflage my wrinkles or cellulite, making me feel even more foolish in this pursuit of youthfulness.
This entire pursuit feels like witchcraft, magic; it’s right up there with faith healings. You open a bottle and there’s a little wand-like thing attached to the lid that you’re supposed to carefully apply over your wrinkles, and then, miraculously the lines are supposed to disappear. Ania will peer into the bathroom, watch me apply the miracle potion, and ask, “Do you think it’s working?” Then she’ll shake her head with pity, letting me know it’s not performing any miracles.
Unfortunately, I have now discovered something more dreadful than the wrinkles. After several months had passed without riding my bike, I hauled it out, and thought it felt good to be on the old saddle again. For a whole minute. Bent over the handlebars, I noticed I had a gut! I have never noticed my stomach before. Obviously I have one, but it used to stay put, like those long ago androgynous titties. It never ends! My body keeps growing.
Once again, I resort to a secret potion that arrives in the mail. It has such an unbecoming name, I’m relieved most of it is in French and I’m not sure what it means. The part I understand says: Flat Abs. Why not just say Fat Abs? I recognize the word “spa” and the promise that three inches of fat will disappear if I faithfully use it twice a day for thirty days.
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