in a few days, my husband and i will renew our vows in front of our Los Angeles family. it's an excuse for a party, really, but why not throw in a ritual on top of it? i'm especially looking forward to the part after all the business stuff when i can throw it down on the dance floor with all of my people, mixed together in one glorious, sweaty mashup of dance fever.
i love these people.
in the midst of preparation for all of this--making lists, ordering tables, checking on rsvp's--i've been struggling with the very ridiculous dilemma of what to wear. in my mind, this time i would wear white (since last time i wore blue and shocked my grandmother; not sure she even considered it a real wedding). i thought maybe i'd buy a new dress, which didn't seem feasible until my best friend gave me a gift certificate to modcloth (i am truly spoiled by my eternal best woman) and then alex helped me pick one out, and it turned out to be blue again.
hell, it worked the first time.
it hasn't arrived yet, but i'm not hopeful it's gonna fit me. the warning was there, in the review section: "this tends to run large in the bust." HA!
it turns out i am not PROPORTIONAL. this is the fancy way of saying that i am crooked through and through, and out of whack like a broken teeter-totter. in short:
my hips are very wide
my middle is expansive
my breasts are tiny
and my heart is askew.
here's the thing, damnit:
i know, I KNOW, that all of this meandering and mucking in my mind is bullshit. Bullshit. i know that my body is a good one, a damn good one, actually; it has served me well and treated me to a life of strong movements. i can dance, i can run, i can stretch, i can be turned on, i can cuddle, i can snuggle with my children, i can comfort with these arms of mine. it is a good body, and decidedly deserves better than me. however, it's stuck with me, so i must continue to strive to love it, above all else.
i am a size 8-10-12 from top to bottom, and they don't make dresses like that. my husband likes to imagine me in flirty dresses from the fifties, but all of those women had waists, honey; mine left around 2011. i daydream about having the bustline to fill out those dresses as well, but my little breasts are just not going to do me the justice of growing up.
(although i once heard someone say breasts can grow during menopause: can it be true? do i dare hope?)
no matter what, this saturday i will tell my husband that i'll spend more time with him, that i am in for another chunk of time in this marriage, that we are too good to not do this for as long as we can. forever, if i dare say so. he loves me and i love him and we have a great family and saturday is about celebrating that, no matter what i look like and what dress i can squeeze into.
he thinks i'm beautiful. i think i'm beautiful, too; at least i try to. today i'm trying to. i'd like to feel beautiful in a dress that fits my body well.
i know i'm better than this post, but i need to talk about it; if i don't, the quiet little crappy-ass voice in my head will work its nasty magic and make me feel shame-y about this little body o'mine.
i think i'll be okay. i have women around me to help me figure this out; i have the words of jena strong and anne lamott to fall back on (like i do, again and again); i have a family who loves me no matter what; i have the ability to rise above this societal machine that makes me feel less than--or more specifically, more than i'm supposed to be.
this is all me; these hips, this belly, the wideness in my shoulders and back, the small breasts that fed two babies so frickin' well, the shoulders that alex loves, the thighs that touch--they fucking rub against each other all day long, people, just like they should!--this is all me, and i claim it, over and over again.
i just had to remind myself out loud here. thanks for listening.
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