I thought we’d come to terms with what our relationship was to be to each other when you first started to change things. I was going to ignore what was happening and you would do what you wanted to me. I would like to revisit that pact. You've gone rouge and I don't like it one bit.
You see, the boobs were a surprise, but I think I dealt with them well. They came in pretty handy - no pun intended - at times. Although I do stand by my statement that they should be removable in certain situations, like in seedy bars with icky men or when one wants to go running. And I'm really not sure why you've designed them to droop. Or why they didn't come with a built in bra. Or why not one person who makes bras can make cute ones that fit that you'll be able to find year after year. But I'm dealing with that. So I'm in a jog bra most of the time. Husband has an imagination and the Internet. He's fine.
I have sort of come to terms with the fact that I’ve not treated my knees and my back well. I am dealing quite well with the consequences you’ve imposed for my years of bruising and banging them about. I have even handled the degenerating discs in my back with some dignity – if you can call popping pills to stop the spasms, epidural shots to stop screaming and walking like I’m eighty to stop the pain, dignity. So I occasionally look like I’m immensely constipated. At least I’m still walking somewhat upright.
As for the rest of my body, well, I’m working on getting used to my hands not working the way they should. The random swelling and the inability to open a bottle or a door has been a challenge but it’s made Husband feel strong and useful. I've only got stuck in the bathroom a few times and I've used that time to clean. After the cussing, that is. And the sounds that now come out of my mouth every time I get up from the floor, well I’m choosing to find those funny. Everyone around me does.
I have even made peace with the mutation you chose to grow in my baby maker. The mutation that caused me to look a lot like a pregnant woman, cry like a baby and bleed like a stuck pig. I’ve embraced the resulting scar and actually take pleasure in showing the picture of my poor uterus being overtaken by the mutant tumors. You see, together, they look like a heart, a fact I find ironic. I’m even ready to deal with whatever you’ve decided to do to my lone ovary and ‘bulky’ cervix. Heck, it’s already been quite a story to tell, I’m sure it can only get better.
Thank you for the multitude of grey hairs. They have been an interesting addition to my hair adding nice depth of color and interest. I love the way you’ve finally answered my plea for straight hair by making only those straight. I also love how you’ve gotten them to stick straight out of whatever ‘style’ I’ve chosen to go with. It’s neat to watch the kids watch the hairs dance when I’m giving notes and arguments with Husband are more vocal when he stops me mid point to pull one out. I really feel they are adding to my wild and arty personality, so thanks for that.
But, dear Body, what the hell is going on with the little tiny annoying hairs you’ve decided to add to my face? Why have you decided to, not only change the texture and color some of the hairs but, also to have them pop up in random places on my chin and cheek? And always at a point in my day when there are no tweezers in sight and I have no way to pluck the offending hairs? You know this results in me spending far too much time obsessing, my fingers drawn again and again to the tiny irritating hair that feels as large as a splinter and yet, I am unable to ever get a grip on it to pull it out.
And now you’ve added to that joy by decorating my neck with teeny skin tags. What the heck? They have begun showing up around my neckline, little tiny dark freckle shapes that protrude and catch the chain of my necklace. I know I’m African American and we’re prone to skin tags but only part of me is so stop. They will never look as awesome on me as they do on Morgan Freeman. Folks have pulled me aside to tell me I’ve got a piece of lint on my neck. And then clumsily tried to brush it off! Seriously.
Dear Body, there has been a lot I have let slide. A lot I have elected to laugh at, to share with others at the expense of my ego but enough is enough. Stop with the changes! They are seriously pissing me off. When I was a kid, if I hurt my leg, my mother would joke that maybe we should send away to the factory for a new one. I wish that was true, that there was a factory of body parts. I have a lot I need to replace.