Never One to Back Down
January 31st, 2008A challenge was issued. I’ve chosen to accept it!
This is about the war, we as women, wage on our own bodies and body image. God knows I have several problem areas. As a Macedonian my badge is worn in the form of upper lip hair. Some call it a mustache. I call it a pain in the ass. For a while I chose to be proud of it, and then I started to wax it. Haven’t looked back. I hate my flabby belly, but it shows that I am a mother. Four times stretched out to capacity, the marks are my own. The flab can be battled wisely. My arms could use some serious sculpting, yet they are still strong enough to carry many loads. And my chin, my chin doubles when I laugh heartily, but at least I’m laughing! I could say my body is in need of a lot of work, but these are the things that I can work on.
Women tend to hate on their bodies, it’s super easy to do. I could easily hate on myself. I happen to think, though, that if we embrace our bodies we might have a better outcome; positivity begets positivity. That’s the point where I am about my body right now. I’m trying to be more aware of what I put into it, what I do with it, and how I treat it. It’s the only one I got, and I love it regardless of the flab, lack of muscle tone, gray hairs, the mustache, the what-have-you…
There is one part of my body, however, that has caused a lot of pain for me over the years: My Hands. They are so cracked and scarred from all the constant dermatitis; it’s really uncomfortable, and–quite frankly–ugly. There are times when my hands look so bad that I feel like a leper. Imagine paying for something at the store, and your hands are so dry, so cracked, that they are bleeding. It’s not very good for the psyche when the teller looks at you like you have a contagious disease.
A few months ago when I had to get fingerprinted for my firearms license, they couldn’t even get proper fingerprints. The sheriff felt so bad for me. He had to basically note that my fingerprints “were unattainable due to malformations”. All the years of scar tissue have made it so that my fingerprints couldn’t be scanned properly. Yes, it’s that bad.
(click to enlarge)
I don’t know what the cause is. For the longest time I thought maybe it was the result of an allergy to wheat or wheat gluten. Now, I think it’s more of a contact dermatitis. Going Green with my cleaning products should show a change, but I haven’t done that 100%, yet. It very well could be my laundry detergent? Or my soap? Or something else that I come into contact with, daily? The uncertainty is unnerving.
I haven’t been tested, but that’s the next step. For now, I just live and deal with it like I’ve done for so many years. Unscented creams and moisturizers are my best friends. I’ve found a few that I like and others that I abhor. Sometimes I even have to use Liquid Bandage, for the little cuts. It really does suck. Really.
Easily I could say, “I hate my hands!” but there’s no point in that. I can’t very well lob them off, and grow new ones, can I? So, I deal with the pain, the discomfort, the unattractiveness, the scars, the open cuts when they are there, the everything. I deal with it, just like life. There are things I can profess are wrong and there are things that I wish I could change. However, I just trudge through it all. My hands are no different. Come to think of it, my handshake is still strong. I guess that’s my true measure. Despite pain and set-backs, I am still strong! I’m a woman, after all!















