It is a bit of an obsession of mine.. this body. I realize now that the experience of being checked out naked in the shower by a bunch of teenage boys was (as I look back) like thirteen year-old rape, and so my body image has been distorted over the years. I was born with a beautiful body, but like all women, I pick it apart, analyze it, drag it in the mud, take it to lunch and then feel guilty that I ever let it eat a thing. It's a vicious cycle, but most women understand the pain and confusion. Perhaps, I a little more so.
I went through periods of anorexia and bulimia most of my early life trying to attain a level of perfection that no one but Barbie and Giada seem to have. The illusion of the beauty-obsessed media, an over-zealous skinny model-type mother with an attitude, and the horrific thought of leering shower stares at my prepubescent nakedness have left me perplexed and raw about what I look like today. I don't know anymore and (frankly) have stopped really giving a shit. Having white hair is disheartening enough without this strange pre-geriatric, post lymphomatic girth and so... I continue to lie about not caring, fight the fight, be hungry, work out like it is my profession and... watch cooking shows to ease my sorrow. As I plan a September trip to Italy, I am practicing my Italiano and watch Everyday Italian... my favorite. It is what I do in the winter frost when I am hungry and wait for the thaw of spring. I watch her show, go grocery shopping and whip up my version that same evening. I, of course, am not allowed to overeat any of it and so I continue to inflict wanton mental suffering upon myself... as I smell the fragrant garlic in olive oil and fresh basil while deliberating the wearing of shorts in the upcoming warmer months.
I do love that sexpot Giada. After my demise, I am reincarnating as her life partner.
Ciao. A più tarrrrrrrdi.
All I need is a mustache and a plane ticket...
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