Today is my 48th birthday and one thing I know for sure, is that age is definitely not JUST a number.
I understand the sentiment behind the popular cliché, but I think it does all of us a huge disservice. Different societies approach age in different ways. In some cultures, age is revered and respected, while in others, we’re made to feel that as our age increases, our worth as human beings decreases, and that’s a damn shame. Marketers don’t make it any easier by telling us how we’re supposed to look, act and feel at each age while simultaneously trying to sell us a ton of products we don’t need in order to fix our perceived flaws. It’s all bullshit. Do I feel 48 years old? I have no idea. What I do know is that I feel like me, so I guess I feel like Marci at 48 years old. Whatever that means. Another thing I know is that to deny my age is to disregard the almost 50 years of combined “holy crap” experiences that make me who I am. I’d be lying if I said that I had no regrets or that I’m grateful for every experience I’ve been through, but I do acknowledge the role they played in my life and it’s these experiences that have made it possible for me to grow, evolve and make huge changes in my life when before, I let fear keep me trapped in a life that other people expected at the expense of my own happiness. It’s these experiences that made it possible for me to truly fall in love for the first time, not only with another person, but also with myself.
I’ve fallen down and picked myself up more times than I can count. Some of those times I bounced up quickly, other times I pulled myself up slowly, bruised and bloodied, crawling on my hands and knees, not completely sure I even wanted to keep going. But I did.
My age is not just a number, it’s my story and if I skipped over the painful chapters, the rest of it just wouldn’t make much sense.
My body has evolved as well. How could it not? We can’t expect to change emotionally, spiritually and intellectually and not also change physically; and that’s okay. I spent most of my life negatively judging myself for who I thought I should be and how I thought I should look and I refuse to keep doing that.
So today, on my birthday, I’m sharing a love letter to my body:
My Body…
I’ve loved it
I’ve hated it
I’ve celebrated it
I’ve judged it unfairly
I’ve abused it
I’ve nurtured it
I’ve trained it
I’ve trashed it
I’ve worked with it
I’ve worked against it
I’ve shared it passionately
I’ve shared it punishingly
I’ve shown it in pride
I’ve shown it in shame
I’ve fed it
I’ve starved it
I’ve created life with it
I’ve mourned death with it
I’ve endured the pain of scars with it
I’ve enjoyed the pleasure of tattoos with it
I’ve wished it were different
I’ve been grateful for how it is
I’ve fought to keep it alive
I’ve wondered if it was worth it
I’ve decided that it was
My body tells my story
The good and the bad
The sympathetic and the scandalous
If I invite you in, leave your judgment at the door
And be prepared to get dirty
Because life is messy
Oh, and wear something comfortable,
Because there will be dancing.
LOTS of dancing!
