The treacherous body

And ageing.

We eat, we shit, we drink, we pee, we sleep, we repeat.

We are systems, of flesh and blood, organs and skin.

I have always had an uneasy relationship with my own fleshy carcass. Such a strange existence, to be alive within ourselves. Viewing your outside self from within, like a daily art installation of sensations and experiences.

The body is an entity that carries us. And signals its needs to us, sometimes efficiently, sometimes inefficiently. Remaining objectively impassive to these signals is a challenge. The changes to these signals as I age are both fascinating and for me, triggering. How to feel when driving, and noticing that the texture of the skin on my hand and wrist on the wheel has changed, the sunlight coming through the dashboard revealing the inarguable evidence- skin that’s become thinner, more translucent, more wrinkled?

I am fascinated by skin and its texture. If you compare the texture of the skin of your nose to the skin on your thigh, or the skin on the back of your knuckles for example. Like different worlds.

This morning I was obediently grunting my way through my weight training session and trying not be distracted by the quite beautiful pallete of purple and mauve veins that snake up my calves, particularly my right leg, flower like. Not varicose exactly- varicose vein stick out, like little mole tunnels under the surface of the grass in a cartoon.

My veins do NOT look like this..

My own veins lurk under the surface, so far anyway, not interfering with the exterior topography, but very visible in all their coloured glory, underneath. I’ve had these veins since my late 20’s, and have had them removed surgically on four occasions so far, in my wish to have ‘normal’ legs. My veins are a genetic inheritance from both sides of my family. I have memories of being very small and watching my grandmother taking off her stockings and bathing her feet in a basin of water- her ankles and small feet encased in a writhing mass of purple and green veins, skin thin as tissue paper. A lifetime of hard work and being on her feet all day.

After my last vein extinguishing procedure the consultant said as he always does post-surgery, ‘they will come back’. Don’t I know it. This is an example of my body’s treachery, or perhaps a more fitting description is its determination to take its own path, veins and all, regardless of my repeated attempts to remove and extinguish.

I understand that my continued physical exertions in the land of weight lifting and exercise are about control, indeed a continued bid to extend some modicum of control over an ageing body. Its also a celebration. I am here! I am alive! Lifting this piece of metal is hard but it reminds me of my inherent existence on an existential level! Also having a kid who was born with physical lifelong differences has affected me so profoundly, so deeply, that I feel the least I can do, and the owner of a so called ‘functioning’ body, is to train it to the brink of what it can manage. The very least.

Which is also why I find it hard to relate, actually I find it tiresome, when people say, ‘Oh I wish I could get rid of this’ and proceed to pull or prod at a part of themselves. If it was me, with my own grim can do work ethic, and also my tendency towards a pedantic interpretation of conversation, I will wonder why said person is not therefore working relentlessly to get rid of the ‘this’. If it is bothering them that much, are they really doing everything in their power to change it, or are they just making conversation?

I was a fitness instructor for 15 years and during this period I talked to so many people about how they felt about their bodies, and more interestingly, how they related to their bodies. It lead me to understand that not everyone is equipped with my ‘can do’ get on with it ability to just get started and to keep going.

I grew to recognise the deep disconnect most adults, particularly in my experience women, have between being ‘in’ their bodies and understanding, appreciating and respecting their bodies. Myself included. They are told by media, society and culture endlessly that they are not enough, that they need to look different that they do, that they should aspire towards a physical body and face that is not their current reality.

And as I’ve gotten older I am now seeing more and more that we are being played. Youth continues to be the all-consuming magnet that western society places value on. We, as women, my generation anyway I feel and I am 50, have never been encouraged to radically accept ageing. It’s seen as a fundamentally unattractive situation to be in and there is still this deep undercurrent of imbued patriarchal generational thinking that permeates all of society like a malignant tumour that deems older women as having less value. That is changing for sure, but the fact that I and others even think this way is proof that it is still there. I’ve stopped perusing certain clothing websites as they only use models in their early 20’s. I cannot relate. Those clothes, if I was to buy them, won’t look like that on me. I’m not going to prop up a business that is not interested in representing a broader facet of society.

Clothing websites that don’t use older models.. but maybe they are not actually trying to sell clothes to people your age Rachel?!?

The simple and obvious factor is that ageing is of course a privilege. The alternative is to die. Feeling ‘less than’ for the fundamental act of aging is ridiculous and also absurd. But feeling less than is not a sign that you are febrile, easily influenced and a bit stupid. Ignoring the media, the ads, the societal shift towards women being expected to look 20 years younger than they are, takes considerable awareness and energy. Rejecting the insidious wellness culture also requires energy. Not judging those who do invest in surgery, tweakments, face rejuvenation also takes energy. You be you. And I celebrate you being you. But I’ll be me, with my slightly drooping eyelids and my purply legs and my resting angry face because I stopped having botox 3 years ago.

I ceased my 2 year long relationship with muscle relaxant partly because the doctor I went to died suddenly, therefore no more injection clinics, and the effort of seeking out a new one was too much for me. But also crucially because I was increasingly uneasy with the Dorian Grey-ness of the whole endeavour. I would get the botox, and resultantly have some part of my face that didn’t wrinkle as much. I say some as I was always fascinated by the botoxed muscles attempts to work regardless while temporarily incapacitated. My eyes wouldn’t crinkle up, but the un-botoxed bits of my face seemed to have to work even harder to compensate for the incapacitated bits. I would then live in this slightly (partially) less crinkly face until the botox wore off and the parts that didn’t wrinkle as much started to wrinkle again. Therefore watching the slow daily horror film in the mirror of ones ‘real’ features emerging, banshee like, as the chemical restraints of the botox holding them back wore off, like a criminally insane patient in a strait jacket that is loosening.. And amidst this agonisingly slow reality check reveal, deciding if I am ‘worth’ the investment of more injections, and thus start the whole dreary procedure again. It was not a success for me.

So the ageing body sends its signals- one huge advantage of getting older, and I am very conscious that I am older in the sense of being older than I was last year. (I am not going into the labelling of who is old and who is not territory. That’s a whole other cultural story.) But one huge advantage for me about having gotten older is, like many people report, that I care less. I care less what others think, about me or about anything, but in a shifting of the scales I care much more about my own actions and how they affect others. I am also more grateful for what I have, and what I need, and don’t need. My age allowed me for example to see that botox, for me, was a ridiculous Sisyphean use of my time and money. Better to shave my head, reveal my face, neck and noggin in all their bare ageing glory and radically confront myself on a daily basis. Like pulling off a plaster every morning. There it is. No more, no less. Deal with it!

The celebration of wellness is a culturally interesting phenomenon also. Being well in yourself. Being your best self. And the commodification of wellness. Paying to be well. Fitness classes. Gym membership. Spa treatments. The pursuit of bodily betterness. It also at its heart comes down to economic ability to invest in said bodily bitterness. I am fully signed up to some elements of this of this wellness stuff, which means I feel that I cannot be too judgey about the bits I don’t invest in. I keep fit, I lift weights, I exercise every day. I love how this makes me feel- calmer, less anxious, more able, and I appreciate the effects it has physiologically on my body. I don’t understand spa treatments however and the few occasions I’ve tried them I’ve felt jumpy and claustrophobic. But my point being, if someone feels better during and after their own spa treatment then rock the fuck on, its not for me to diss.

I have no conclusions or summaries of my thoughts on ageing. They are just that, thoughts, pretty personal ones, that crowd my head up. I feel violently afraid some days and other days very grateful and calm. It depends. Weight training has taught me that you can always get stronger, you can always physically progress, regardless of age or genetics. I try to apply this to all facets of life. Yes I have veins on my legs but I have muscles on them too. Best to make friends with your treacherous body. Those signals it sends are signs of life.