By, Chava Floryn
A few years back while at the gym changing in the locker room- I noticed two 20-year-olds chatting and encouraging each other on their minuscule diet plan that consisted of, what I only assumed to be caffeinated coffee, green tea, a bunch of vitamins I’ve never heard before, CLA, IRS, BM’s (probably breath mints) and of course a ton of bubbly water (to keep their hunger pangs away). On the outside they appeared to be “the perfect LA female specimens”. Perfect as in untouched from human life experience, lacking any scars, disfiguration or trauma from the escapades of feminine worldliness.
They spent a good twenty minutes comparing their perfect non-abs quipping about how they plan on having “these flat bellies forever-” bc i guess they are “just that freakin DNA blessed” or delusional possessed. In between my eye rolling, eavesdropping, note taking and letting my flab hang out on purpose so they knew what to expect should a baby ever invade their “perfect concave tummies” (cue LMFAO-“Girl look at my body, I work out” soundtrack) I spotted another woman blowdrying her hair.
There in all her glory peered a woman a few years ahead of me. She was desperately trying to hold onto her youth with a fresh face of botox – but her warm eyes and familiar nod had me realize we were on the “same team.” This female specimen had the body of a warrior female who flaunted with grace and dignity her share of battles- her naked left breast had been clearly maimed from what I assumed was cancer and radiation treatment. And I could tell she was listening very intently – hanging onto every word of the other girl team’s convo. When the youngins were finished- after I tucked my own cellulite into my underpants- the woman with the scar turned to me and said “what did those girls say- I tried to listen but I didn’t hear everything – sounded like they knew something-” Hoping I would be the messenger to reveal the secret to youth- I spouted- “Really?- after their first baby, Mammogram, and uterus exam will any of it really matter?“
The irony of reality hitting our adult selves could be cut with a scalpel. No amount of time, age or plastic can change the one thing we all inevitably become victims to- nope, its called adult-ing (notice I don’t use the term aging- that my friends, is a BS term 20 year olds use to convince us adults that our human scars of life are odious embarrassments vs the Medallion of Honor and Grace that they ARE.
You know what those two girls said? They said nothing, they said absolutely nothing. They said how little they know of the pains of childbirth, stress and clawing one’s way up the feminine tower. They said little of how much work it takes to make the female body contain life, then rid of it, then react to the changes because of it, then morph, grow and transform in spite of it. They said very little of the tears shed when a woman tries to conceive, the tears lost after growing bellies expel all the muscle and leave her with stretch marks. They said very little about the power of her breasts feeding life only to turn on her and then threaten her own life. They said so little, that I wondered how on God’s Green Earth women knee deep into adulthood with all of the brilliance, understanding, knowledge and redemption they have acquired, could have possibly even for one moment listened and hoped to hold on to even a sentence- yet an entire conversation of such naive words. While Adult-ing is not always fun, it does take bravery, whit and a hell of a sense of humor. I’ll take that over concave non-existent abs ANY DAY.
After that the woman with the half boob and I put on our sexy lingerie that reveals and half covers our feminine scars, we high fived each other and strutted outta there with only one goal in mind- to eat a cookie while dancing on a rooftop. I bet that other girl team never thought to do THAT.
Nurture your full self, even the parts that are broken. For it is through those broken scars we can truly find our wings.
