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What if I just stopped participating?

What if opted out of all the beauty rituals I begrudgingly submit to in order to make my body, and therefore myself, acceptable? 

I would enjoy a bath for the delight of soaking in lavender oil and for the joy of letting my body take up all the space she needs, displacing water with no judgement. I would close my eyes and notice the warmth of the water on my skin, holding me gently and allowing me to sink a little deeper as I exhale. The bathwater would cool and I would top it up with hot water, but only a little and only once, mindful that I am luxuriating in a resource not available to all. Before stepping out of the tub, it would occur to me that I was there for a functional purpose and not just pleasure, and use a plant-based bar of soap to cleanse my body.

After my bath, I would choose the same towel I used yesterday, and the day before that, to soak up the scented water from my hair and my skin. Next, I would rub oil into my skin, aware of the light covering of hair, sparse and fine in some places, coarser and thicker in others. I would use a brush made of bamboo, with wooden bristles with rounded ends, to massage my scalp and untangle my long hair. I would let it dry, taking exactly as long as needed to let the water evaporate. The newer white strands of my hair would stand out from the older red and brown and blond ones that have been familiar to me for over forty years. Knowing that my history is recorded in those long strands of hair, like the rings of growth in a slice of a tree, would bring a smile to my face.

That smile on my face would deepen the lines around my eyes and my mouth and expose my teeth, not nearly as white as they were when I was a child. The wine and coffee and the delicious food I have enjoyed over the years having darkened them a bit, just as one would expect. I would recognize the lines running horizontally on my forehead as being the very same as the ones on my mother’s face and her mother’s too, and be thankful to be born to these incredibly strong and soft women. I would be grateful for my thick, fair eyebrows and eyelashes that keep the sweat from dripping into my eyes when I climb mountains on hot days. Maybe, if I felt inspired to, I would choose a lipstick or eye shadow to match the colors of fall or my favorite sweater.

I would dress in my most comfortable clothes. I would choose the flowy white t-shirt with Janne Robinson’s poem, “This is for the Women” printed on it, and wear it again even though I wore it yesterday. Under that shirt I would wear my favorite bra, the one with no wires or padding, and I would not care that the black straps were visible. I’d pull on a pair of comfy tights with a wide, flat waistband and a pocket big enough to hold important things. They were made locally from recycled water bottles and are covered in a geometric pattern of mountains and trees and the face of a fox combined with that of a woman. I bought them from a beautiful human who sells them to raise funds to send teenage girls to a camp in the mountains, where they are on a mission to eradicate their self-loathing and learn to love themselves again. I would wear them proudly and tell the story of Girl in the Wild every chance I got.

All day, I would be ready to move. I could run, if I needed to. I could practice yoga, if I needed to. My breathing would be unrestricted and uninhibited whether I sat at a desk or on a cushion.

It would take some time but, eventually, I would relearn to recognize and trust the signals my body sends to tell me what, when and how much to eat. Sometimes hunger would be my cue to start eating and a sensation of fullness would be my cue to stop. Other times, emotions would trigger a draw to or a retreat from food and I’d accept that reminder to sit with those feelings and allow them to flow through my body and soul, rather than just my digestive system. Eating for pleasure and celebration and not simply for fuel would become normal again. There would be no more guilt or shame associated with what I food I chose to consume.

I would move my body for fun, for play, for pleasure and for release. Some days, that would involve hours of energy output as my heart pounded and my lungs strained as I pushed for the summit. Other days, I would spend a glorious hour methodically planning every footfall to avoid tripping on roots or twisting an ankle as I jogged along a trail by a river. On a hard day, I might clench my jaw through 25 push-ups in the bathroom at the office, followed by a thorough hand washing and a few minutes of stillness in meditation. Failing that, I might abandon the office and go to the beach instead, to swim away my frustrations in the ocean before drying off by dancing in the circle of my hula hoop, sand sticking to the soles of my feet.

There would be no more required plucking or shaving or bleaching or coloring. No obligation to listen to the roar of a hair dryer. No stressing about which clothes are appropriate in the opinion of others. No shopping for products intended to minimize or enhance, or to make some part of me ‘pop’ and then discarding the excessive plastic packaging. No saying, “no, thank you” when I want to say, “yes, please” to the offer of a slice of birthday cake. No need to apply and reapply and coat and blend and then wash it all off at night, just to wake up and do it all again.

No more self oppression.

Instead, I would write more. I would read more. I would laugh and play more. I would appreciate growing older rather than resisting the process. I would take more care preparing food. I would get enough sleep. I would see myself in the mirror and not wonder if it’s time to cut Botox bangs. 

I would enjoy my body for all she has done and will do for me, rather than trying to make her into something she is not.

I would slow down.

How I would love to, every day, be the woman they are talking about when they say:

She really let herself go.