My perfect body

I've got a perfect body
But sometimes I forget
I've got a perfect body
Cause my eyelashes catch my sweat
--Regina Spektor, "Folding Chair"

I heard this song yesterday, and the above lyrics really struck me. If one were to ask me to describe my body, "perfect" is probably the last word I would use. And, to be honest, asking me isn't even necessary -- I'm all too ready to volunteer to anyone the various things about my body that I dislike. Things that I see as flaws; that I tell myself I have to work harder to change. Like the pooch of my lower belly and the layer of fat that has collected there. The cellulite on my thighs. The size and shape of my butt. The number on the scale. The number on the tag of my jeans. How much my upper arms jiggle when I gesture or wave at someone. I could keep going, and most women I know have their own, seemingly never-ending list as well.

But how often do I stop to consider how amazing -- and indeed, how perfect -- my body actually is? Right now my fingers are moving across the keyboard to type these words, doing exactly what my brain is telling them to do. If I want a drink of water, I can get off of the couch, walk to the kitchen and pour myself one. I can walk and run. I can lift a box, drive a car, scratch my nose, read a book, go to sleep, see color, eat food, hear music....you get the point.

Actually, I take that back. I don't think we get the point. The fact is that I, along with most (if not all) of the persons reading these words right now, have a perfect body. A body that moves when I want to move. A body that functions exactly how it is designed to function. If I get cut or bruised, my body heals. My heart pumps blood to all of my organs. My face can change expressions at my command. And I have eyelashes that catch my sweat. Perfection. But the way we talk about and think about our bodies -- defining them by their miniscule flaws -- portrays the opposite.

It shouldn't take something going wrong, like an accident, or cancer, or a disability, or the flu, for us to appreciate how perfectly our bodies are working for us all the time. I often say that I want to be good to my body, meaning that I want to eat healthier foods and exercise more. But that's only part of it. I want to be good to my body in my thoughts and words as well. When I think and say things like "I feel so fat" or "my [miscellaneous body part] is so gross," I'm dishonoring the healthy and strong body that serves me every day and night. Comments like that are not okay. They are ignorant, harmful, and false.

As I was getting into bed last night, I said it out loud: "I have a perfect body." It felt strangely odd to say it; but I believe that it's true. And I think all of us, especially women, need a reminder of this truth to counter the barrage of messages we receive each day about what a "perfect" body actually is.

Grace Post 16

1. A morning run on the beach with the love of my life

2. Sunscreen

3. Pina Coladas

4. A midnight text message announcing the arrival of beautiful Harper Belle

5. Spending an entire week without ever knowing what time it is

GiST 15

1. A perfect, sweet nectarine

2. A debate, unresolved, that ends in hugs and civility

3. The feeling at the end of a run -- that perfect mixture of accomplishment, exhaustion, and "I'm so glad that's over...and so glad that I did it."

4. Picking which books to bring to the beach. So far: Ahab's Wife (which I haven't had a chance to pick up since our last vacation), The Bluest Eye, Home, and a bunch of New Yorker magazines. I'll probably be adding to this list.

5. N.T. Wright on women in the early church:

Grace 14

1. Four-part acapella harmony

2. Barefoot Contessa Macaroni and Cheese (Make this. It is so easy and amazingly delicious -- trust me. I don't add the tomatoes because they are unnecessary, as the gruyere/cheddar cheese sauce with cavatappi is perfection on its own.)

3. A Saturday with no plans

4. Finishing the wine bottle while watching Arrested Development

5. Round tables

Grace 13 and other random notes

I know these posts are lazy. I'd like to write more, but work has been too busy lately to take the time needed to do so. Matt and I went to see King Lear today at the Shakespeare Theatre Company downtown, and it was fantastic. The acting and the adaptation were outstanding. I thoroughly enjoyed it, even though it was definitely the most violent play I've ever seen. Not much blood, but lots of dramatic and occasionally drawn-out deaths (not to mention the disturbing Gloucester blinding scene, for those of you who know the play). One character was strangled with a tie, and that scene lasted for what felt like ten minutes with lots of struggling. Matt made me laugh afterwards by saying that he was tempted to call out "okay, I think he's dead already, he's been without air for about ten minutes now!" Admittedly though, if I were a Shakespearean actor, and had a death scene, I would probably want to drag it out and make it as dramatic as possible too.

While we're on the subject of disturbing yet worthwhile activities, I recommend listening to this interview of Carroll Pickett by Terry Gross, from NPR's program Fresh Air. Pickett served as a death row chaplain in Huntsville, Texas for thirteen years. He ministered to 95 prisoners who were executed by lethal injection. Although when he began his ministry, he was supportive of the death penalty, his experiences led him in a different direction. The interview is quite moving, and discusses a documentary that came out last year called "At the Death House Door."

So...now on to happier things. The grace for today:

1. Cotton skirts

2. Freshly folded and cleaned laundry

3. Shared by a friend, with tears, John 11:40: Jesus said to her, "Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?"

4. Frozen pomegranate margaritas

5. Lotil cream (the best stuff for cuticles -- trust me)

Grace Post 12

1. Lemon Meringue Pie frozen custard
2. A tuned piano
3. Yoga in the morning
4. Sleeping next to the one you love
5. Cold water

Just something I want to remember

Matt and I went to see the Indigo Girls a couple of weeks ago at Wolf Trap. I love seeing shows there -- the amphitheatre is beautiful, surrounded by nature, and has surprisingly great acoustics for an open-air stage. Plus they let you bring your own food and wine to picnic on the lawn while you watch a show.

We arrived just in time to see the opening act, Matt Nathanson. We found a small area of grass, set up our blanket, opened a bottle of wine and leaned back to enjoy the show. People around us were singing, and smiling. We ate sea salt popcorn, hummus with pita chips, half of a chocolate bar.

Raindrops started to fall, but our umbrella and an extra towel kept us fairly dry. Right before the Indigo Girls came out, though, the sky opened up. Matt and I huddled under our tiny umbrella, our hands slipping as we tried to cover up our cooler and other belongings, thinking that surely this would pass after a few minutes.

It didn't. It kept raining, harder and harder, and thunder clapped loudly, joining the harmony of the guitars onstage. "What do you think?" Matt asked. "I don't know. Maybe it's about to stop?" Another clap of thunder answered me, and I started to feel cold water gushing down my back. We were getting soaked, and the rain wasn't letting up.

We glanced at each other again, laughing, resigned. Time to make a run for it. So we hastily gathered up everything, trying not to slip down the grassy slope leading toward the stage. My hair was sticking to my face, dripping cold drops down onto my neck and shoulders. Carefully avoiding the poncho-clad fans still spread out on the lawn, who were determined to stick it out, we made for the car, laughing and yelling as we splashed through huge puddles that submerged our pant legs and soaked our socks. The rain continued to pour down, and we ran hunched over, as if it were possible to keep our faces from getting wet. I was giggling at the sight of Matt running, knowing I looked just the same.

When we reached the car, we threw everything in the backseat, slammed the doors and collapsed, soaking, into our seats. As we drove home through the rain, seeing flashes of lightning in the distance, we blared music from the radio, singing along at the top of our lungs.