Body

 I’m not always crazy about my body.  

I could do without the way my old man potbelly makes my favorite jeans so tight and pushes them down beneath my navel.  And those jowls that dominate the face of the guy I’m always in Zoom meetings with are a source of ongoing dismay.  And howcome with every passing year, I look more and more like one of Middle Earth’s hobbits and less like one of its elves?

But it’s sort of ridiculous, isn’t it, to feel bad about one’s physical form.  After all, if it weren’t for your body, you wouldn’t be able to feel bad—or for that matter, anything—so, really, we ought to continually celebrate our corporeal being since without it, we’d have no ability to do anything, anyway, at least not on this plane of existence.

It’s natural, I suppose, to experience some dissatisfaction sometimes about one’s physique.  It’s easy enough to compare the current form you inhabit to the one you went around in say, thirty years and twenty pounds ago, and thanks to dominant cultural norms and the power of advertising feel like your something less for being something more than you used to be.

But it’s kind of self-indulgent to do so, wouldn’t you say?

I mean, again, it’s only the existence of your body that makes not liking your body possible, so, at the very least, you—that is, I—should recognize how lucky you are to have a body—any body—and stop making a fuss.

This doesn’t mean one ought not to eat healthy and exercise; we should treat our bodies with respect and act accordingly, but part of that respect, as well, is to be satisfied with our body the way it is, since the way it is, (however that is), makes everything—including healthy eating and exercise—possible. 

My body’s not a temple; it’s an amusement park.  Everyday I buy a ticket and take the ride.