My Body, My Self

30.   My Body

 

It has taken almost 33 years, but I am thankful for the body I live in everyday. 

Sure, I frequently wish it was a bit taller or my legs a bit longer or leaner.  I curse my thick calves almost daily.

But lately, my body and I have come to an understanding and I am very thankful for this new relationship.  Awhile ago I wrote about how, until recently, I didn’t connect with my body.  I viewed it as a separate entity.

Slowly, I have come to love my stick straight hair and unevenly long torso.  The more I run, the more I appreciate the muscle of my legs.  I spent years cursing the curvature of those thighs and calves.  Then I remember that those legs and accompanying muscles made me dance.  Those muscles made it possible to do something that I loved and those memories keep me very warm.    

Yes, those curves make it difficult to find trousers that fit to my liking.  At times I still get hot and bothered trying to squeeze into jeans that were not made for my particular curves, despite the marketing.  Okay, honestly, I always get hot and bothered trying on trousers.  I get increasingly frustrated because I am convinced I am not the only woman with curvy legs trying to find a suitable pair of jeans.

But today I had a thought.  Instead of becoming frustrated, maybe I should revel in the fact that my body is unique.  This particular set of measurements and lengths and curves is all my own.  And perhaps, as Karen would tell me, they are beautifully different. 

With all my complaints and angst and Weight Watchers, I am incredibly lucky in my body.  Yes the knees are knocked about a bit, the wrist is a bit weak, one thumb is permanently the size of an eight year old’s, but it is healthy.  It has never had any serious problems and the more I connect with it, the more it gives me in return.  Each of the minor ‘flaws’ I see are stories of my life.  The knocked knees from dancing, the wrist from dancing and writing, the thumb from a childhood bike accident.  (The thumb precipitated my husband’s first conversation with me.) The numerous scars contribute to the story.  A cat scratch, elephant skin, web burn, honeymoon snorkelling, a band camp accident. 

Today, on the first Day of Thanks, I thank my body for its work and am grateful for its continued support. 

Traditions endure

Before I forget,

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!

Our first annual Halloween Cocktail Party went off beautifully.  I am very excited about this new development.  We don’t have much room, but we filled it with friends and good conversation.  The hats were fabulous and the Cocktails were shaken, not stirred.  Perfect. 

Tonight is Trick or Treat night in Greenwich and our pumpkins are waiting.  They have become a bit of a tourist attraction.  I have caught a few adults breaching our territory to have their pictures taken with our creations.  I get palpitations every time.  I can just see the orange orbs tumbling out of their arms and smashing to the pavement.  I don’t mind the photos.  In fact I love that people are taking photos and getting excited about a holiday that is really just a footnote to Bonfire Night, but is it really necessary to pick them up off our window sill?

 I don’t think so.

 Hands Off!!!! 

In other news, November begins tomorrow.  I know.  News Flash!!

But that means that tomorrow also begins  my second round of 30 Days of Thanks.  Last year I was in a really dark place when I began the Days of Thanks.  This year I am in a much better place and it seems a perfect time to reflect on how I have come through the darkness and hopefully how I will remain in the light.  As with last year, I will be travelling during this month.  This is not a necessary part of the practice of gratitude, obviously, but I find sometimes moving outside of your comfort zone reminds you of why you are so comfortable.  That outward movement can be difficult, but sometimes gratitude requires courage. 

I invite you to engage in your own Days of Thanks.  Either here in the comments, on your own blog or in private. 

Until tomorrow, thanks for reading.  I am very grateful for your attention. 

(That one is for free)

On the Fritz

The Reluctant Housewife and the relationship between my internet browser and Blogger are all on the fritz today. 

Deepest apologies and promises of a really good episode next week. 

Maybe even two if you're really good. 




Now go back to work on your Halloween costume.   If you're not dressing up this weekend I don't know if we can be friends. (Without good reason of course, like death or something, although that doesn't really work either.  Just throw on some thick make-up and backcomb the hair a bit at the very least.  I beg you!)

Return and Return, again

You thought I dropped off the map. 

In a way I did. 

Bizarrely, we were better ‘connected’ during this trip than any of our other adventures and at the same time more disconnected from the experience than any of our other adventures. 

The disconnection didn’t come from the WI-FI searches at each hotel but from an attempt to re-live a magical time in our past that can’t be repeated. 

Our return to the African continent is at peril of being erased by our immediate return to the life we created since we last stepped foot on the red soil of Africa.  The only clue we returned and returned again are the mounds of laundry surrounding me and the two sleeping bags waiting to be stowed until the next adventure. 

As with most adventures, we learned a bit about ourselves in the process.  Some lessons were a welcome surprise others just unexpected and still rolling around in our heads. 

But, in case you sense a disappointment in our Moroccan Motoring, we are very happy that we finally saw Morocco and can strike that item on our ‘Place to See’ list.  We have rugs to keep our feet warm and shoes to keep them stylish. 

As I try to get a handle on the detritus that covers our living room floor and the dust that is settling over our memories, I will leave you with a few photos I posted to Twitter along the way. 

Over the next few weeks I will share moments and stories from the roads of Morocco.  Stay tuned for a return to the routine peppered with reflections of our recent return. 



The long road home

And so it ends.  The Guest Series and our tour of Morocco.  However, having learned our lesson on many other action/attraction- packed trips, we have scheduled three relaxing days in a luxury riad before we return to the inevitable crap weather than has descended over London. 

To be honest, it will take me three days to make sense of our luggage after two weeks of quickly stuffing clothes and shopping into backpacks with no chance to take stock.  I wouldn’t be surprised if I find I have left a pair of undies air-drying in a bathroom somewhere.  These three days will also allow me to panic about our return without the distraction of incredible vistas and unmissable experiences. 

While Emily likes to stay home and Petite plans for every scenario, I panic about the return.  Not in a I-don’t-want-to-leave way, although that is part of it.  But in a there-is-so-much-to-do-when-I-get-home way.  I tend to check out of holiday about three days to the end.  I don’t sweat the leaving for the vacation too much (oaky that’s a blatant lie, I’ll blow past it).  I expect the flight to be hell on earth and am pleasantly surprised when it is anything else.  But as the return approaches, Reluctant Housewife begins to fret about the to-do list that will spontaneously manifest by the simple act of returning home.

Pete is the complete opposite.  He lives in the moment.  He doesn’t get excited to leave until we are on the plane.  He goes through the motions of ordering money and gathering documents, but the act of packing seems almost an afterthought to him.  I, of course, have had lists and intricate laundry schedules going for two weeks leading up to the holiday. 

However, Pete’s aloofness is enviably while we are actually on holiday.  He goes with it.  His influence has allowed me to let go a bit and go with it as well.  Until three days to the end.  He has yet to figure out a way to get me from thinking about the return.  He doesn’t worry about the return until the moment we hoist our bags onto our backs at the baggage carousel and are heading for the train/tube/bus/cab that will take us home.  I stand by my claim that we are our best team while travelling, and part of that may be that we know our roles and play them well. 

So, while I pack and repack for the next three days and Pete roams the streets of Marrakesh un-accosted (if we are anywhere in the vicinity of ‘swarthy’ populations, Pete is mistaken as a local.  This has served us well in the past) I will be thinking of the lovely ladies (and gentleman) that kept you entertained these past two weeks.

Much thanks to all my guest writers and readers.  I hope you will stick around. 

On the Road: better together

Today’s final offering is from my first and most frequent commenter.  I don’t know how she found me, I suspect APW, but I am so glad she did.  Kimberly and I have so much in common it is criminal we are separated by an ocean.  As we prepare to return, Kimberly prepares to depart.  She is about to embark on an adventure to South America and while I wish her well, I will miss her voice dearly.  I have mentioned before that Pete and I are our best team when travelling (and hopefully this claim is still holding water as we come to the end of our journey).  Kimberly shares this belief and expands on it here. 

Mmmmmm, travel. It can be exhausting and frustrating and bank-account-draining. It can be also exciting and adventurous, full of mystery and expectations, new experiences and stories to tell.

I used to travel for dance competitions as a kid, so for me, being at an airport or loading up the car for a roadtrip wasn't a hassle; it was the start of an incredibly fun time. Even now, in spite of impossibly long security lines and footing the bill myself, I always feel a bit of a thrill at the start of a journey.

Himself and I began our relationship while on opposite sides of an ocean, so I always knew that travel would be a part of our lives going forward. (With families in two different countries and us living in a third, it's kind of a must.) What I didn't know, however, is how travel would shape me, and shape our relationship.

"If you really want to know someone, travel with them." You've heard this before, right? And for the most part I'd agree -- you get to see how someone else deals with the unexpected (flight delays), the unfortunate (stolen possessions) and the downright ugly (being held up with a machete). But you also get to see another side of that person, and when that person is your partner, it's really refreshing. Sometimes you even surprise yourself with coping skills you didn't know you had. You have to jump right into a new language or orient yourself to a new city and all of that forces you to grow, and grow together. When we travel together to a new place, stripped of all of our day-to-day responsibilities, to-dos, and mundane tasks that make our little world go 'round, we're freer. We're open to be our pure selves, unencumbered and ready for the next bus breakdown or missed train . . . somewhow, it's a lot easier to reconnect with the person that we fell in love with, all those years ago.

Traveling is also a great chance for us to throw out the "wife" and "husband" roles that we fall into when dealing with cleaning and laundry and dinners and grocery shopping. We don't have a problem with the roles that we've assumed -- I like to think we play to our strengths and do what needs to be done -- but the "husband does this" and "wife does that" chatter that we're usually good at ignoring seems to naturally be a lot quieter when outside of our everyday environment. It's just himself and I, being us, doing what we feel like doing, day after day, week after week.

Ariel's request (yay!) for me to do a guest post around travel could not have come at a better time. As you read this, himself and I are gearing up for a couple of months in South America. We don't have an exact itinerary, and while we don't see this as our last hurrah, exactly, we're very aware that it probably won't be just the two of us forever . . . even more reason to be excited about hitting the road.

For some people, travel is a huge headache. For us, it's a breath of fresh air, injecting new life into our relationship.

We're always ready to inhale.

photo of NZ South Island supplied by Kimberly and Himself.
Even our photo choices are similar!

On the Road: 'Galumphing at Gettysburg'

Today, while we bump along the road in a public bus from the beaches of Essaouira to the teaming humanity of Marrakesh, my father will entertain you with his memories of the Gettysburg adventure and its deep tradition.

            Our family was on an “American History” tour of the east coast for young Ariel’s educational benefit.  The route included Jamestown, Yorktown, Williamsburg and Washington D.C.  Heading east from Cleveland, Ohio, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania was a logical first stop.  This rural hamlet is the carefully preserved site of the largest battle of our Civil War, (1860-1865), a tranquil picturesque slaughterhouse.

            It wasn’t my first trip.  We were somewhat re-enacting a visit my family made some twenty years earlier when I was a boy, so there were rituals to perform.

PLAQUE PERUSAL:  You must read all historic plaques and memorials to glean any morsel of interest from the multitude of stupefying minutia contained – and there are hundreds of them.  Example;  “On this spot Colonel Jubilation T. Cornpone’s Dog Patch Brigade arrived late, slept through the battle and heroically led the retreat.”

MUSEUM MARCHES:  There’s a lot to learn and a couple million ways to teach you about it.  Dioramas, artifacts, timelines, diagrams, (of battle days 1-4 broken down in six hour increments), movie clips and full size recreations – all there in Red, White, Blue and Grey.  So exhaustive is the educational onslaught that my wife had only one pressing question upon completion.  “So, who won?”

SOUVENIR SEARCH:  You’re going to buy something, so you might as well choose sides.  Tragically you can tell which area of the country visitors come from, (and the residual political scars retained), by which color infantry hats their children covet.  F.Y.I. to foreigners – blue’s a winner.

RAMPART ROMP:  What’s more fun than climbing around the boulders of “The Devil’s Den” taking cute family photos in the exact location that grainy battlefield tintypes recorded piles of dead snipers?  Or, charging full speed across that vast killing field and arriving sweaty and panting at the actual high water mark of the Confederacy?  Now imagine doing it with 80 lbs. of backpack, woolen uniform, and heavy musket through a steady murderous hail of mini balls and grape shot.

            Of course on such a family excursion all cannot be sweetness and light.  Besides the usual generic lunch menu disagreements and backseat travel fatigue there were site-specific highs and lows.

 The bitter disappointment of searching all day, (with multiple entrance fees), for that lovingly remembered 1/16^th scale, three dimensional, hand painted, full battle field diorama with over ten thousand soldiers, horses, electrically animated cannons, and field hospitals complete with piles of amputated plastic limbs.

The quiet experience of crouching down with my daughter behind the low stone wall at “The Bloody Angle” in the shadow of a monument to Major Webb’s Pennsylvania Volunteers, (not necessarily a relation- but close enough), and listening for the ghostly footsteps of General Pickett’s rebels marching to their doom!   Of course, Ariel got scared and cried - because I always manage to overdo the spooky stuff.  But at that time and place, I felt her reaction was profoundly appropriate.