Seaweed and Blubber
Seaweed and Blubber
On bodies, swimming, and kindness
It was warm today. The water beckoned me to slide in. I was hot and sweaty from carting a whole lot of shit around and desperately needed the relief. I stripped off all my clothes, easing myself into the water from the ladder on the pontoon. Heaven!
I knew that if I swam out a little way the seaweed wouldn’t get me (I have a thing about seaweed. That’s for another time but let me tell you, the fear is real.) I kicked, my body moving through the water in a way it never does on land (another reason why I love water but that’s also for another time).
Strands of weed brushed my butt. What the flucking fluck?! I was past the seaweed line, I was sure of it! It’s deep, this little bay where I’m lucky enough to spend weeks at a time during the summer. Fourteen metres deep to be exact. And I was at least 20 metres from the shore, far enough to be seaweed-free.
As I kicked—a little madly, I admit, because of the seaweed fear—I realised something.
It was not seaweed. It was, in fact, my very own blubber!
My gloriously round thighs were creating ripples under the water, undulating with each kick! It felt as if all the seaweed in the bay had congregated to touch my butt and thighs but it was my own body. Laughter burst forth when I realised—and I just kept kicking to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.
Floating on my back, watching the clouds float by, I reflected on my relationship with my body. Like most women, I’ve spent plenty of my fifty years wishing it was different. Wanting less blubber and a more svelte silhouette. Wanting fewer freckles and more smooth, tanned skin. Wanting fewer stretchmarks… always wanting something else that wasn’t mine.
Fahrk, what a waste of energy!
Maybe it’s this mid-century thing, but I’m giving far fewer fucks about a whole lot of things nowadays (even using the word ‘nowadays’ which I once hated). Fifty years of living in a body that has expanded and contracted carried me around the world, danced, given birth, walked and even ran (I hate running), played netball, worn an amazing array of clothing, had hair grow in places that I’d rather not have it, flushed hot, creaked, and even frozen up (looking at you, frozen shoulders!).
I just want it to stop.
So I’m celebrating my blubber! My undulating thighs. The fact that I can walk, naked, from our sauna on the water’s edge down the little jetty to the floating pontoon and slip into the water.
Do I look my age? Of course, I fucking do! Why would I want to look thirty when I’m fifty? Who has told us that youth is the goal despite the fact we all age? (#patriarchy #marketing #bullshit) Maybe youth is wasted on the young but really, the privilege of getting older when you never know when you might pop your clogs is something society needs to focus on a little more.
A little more joy and a lot less judgment. More embracing your body and a lot less condemnation if we don’t fit the ridiculous cookie-cutter ideal some knob-head dreamed up (and has changed substantially over time—I’ve taught sociology, hit me up if you want an insightful deep-dive into the history of women’s underwear and how it reflects changes in society).
My body works, for the most part (frozen shoulders and dodgy knees aside). I’m just sick of hating it. Or waiting for it to get smaller. Or better, or less. Always less.
So I’m going to say goodbye to less. Give me a little more. More love. More kindness. More encouragement. More joy as I slide into the water, naked, and breaststroke with my slightly dodgy frozen right shoulder.
~love the shit out of you~
Lisa x
P.S. Now it’s your turn. What are you saying goodbye to and giving yourself more of? Journal. Comment. Reply. 💖
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You had me laugh out loud when I read about the blubber. Love it!
Love it, Lisa! More, more, more! xx