The parts fit together like lego blocks. Different shapes, different colors, fitting together perfectly, to form an imperfect shape. The parts form my body. The colors form my spirit. They become one. They become me.
A very young age
From a very young age people started telling me I wasn't built like other people. I was skinny, gangly, bony, coltish, gaunt- sharp words for an angular body. As a child, it didn't bother me. I had three older brothers who I thought were built just like me and it didn't seem to be a problem for them. Besides, I could run like the wind, climb like a monkey, and was quick like a cat. What I lacked in bulk while playing front yard football with my bothers and their friends, I made up for in speed and fearlessness. And I was smart. That had to count for something, right?
I can't remember how old I was when the words started hurting. It seems like it was about the time that I started noticing boys and they didn't notice me. Friends and relatives said I would grow and fill out once I hit puberty, but I never did. I stayed long-legged and flat-chested with chiseled facial features; a skinny girl. Even my hair was skinny: long, thin blonde hair that wouldn't hold a curl no matter what. I came to see my body, and subsequently myself, as utilitarian. It was neither unattractive nor desirable. It served its purpose by carrying "me" around this world, and did it well enough that I rarely had reason to complain about job performance.
I was twenty-seven years old before a man used the word "beautiful" in reference to me. Men had used other words to compliment me before, but somehow the word "beautiful" held it's own kind of magic. Sure, I liked it (and still do) when I was complimented on my logical mind, my reasonableness, and other personality and character traits, but I am as susceptible as the next woman when it comes to needing to be thought of as beautiful by a man.
I am now within sight of forty years old and am just beginning to understand the beauty of my own body. I am still somewhat coltish and my face has probably gotten more angular with age, but I no longer view the physicalness, if there is such a word, of my body as utilitarian. It is beautiful in its own right and it is a part of me, not something that carries around the "real" me.
Twisted And Tortured
Twisted And Tortured I Am Inside From Birth. Outside Was A Picture Of Angelic Beauty, I've Been Told Limping and Wobbleling Never Had The Gift Of Girth Each Step An Effort Then Rolling Rolling Enduring This Tough Life Here On Earth Never Folding My Body Still Carries Me Everywhere No Matter How Much I Swear I Do Still Care? Some Inner Strength Has Me On A String; Holding Holding To KEEP ON KEEPING ON Searching Forever My Life's Worth