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Got my 45 on
And away we go. It’s June. The big push is now on to have beach bodies. My social media feed is replete with promises. One promise is that in less than fourteen days I should be able to go from fat to fabulous by clicking on the link. The link leads me to a questionnaire asking about my habits, body shape, how much I weigh, how tall I am, my fitness level, my food intake, am I a male or female and how the heck old I am. And for a bit of cash I’ll receive a “plan” or a bag of weight-loss gels or a suggestion to get in touch with a doctor for a weight-loss prescription product. Oh, Oh, Oh, Ozempic™.
I am, like a lot of you, overwhelmed by the number of corporations pushing their agenda and pretending to give a good gosh darn about us, but are really hellbent on making people feel bad enough about their bodies to buy some magic beans. I’m talking to all of us who have a little bit of junk all around—and in—“the trunk”. To put it mildly, I’m tired of the body-shaming. I’m upset because I was raised to be critical of my own appearance and of others’. Apparently, I can’t be myself unless I’m someone else’s idea of what the ideal person looks like. If I want to be the “true me” I have to do all of the things the true me would never consider doing. Think about how many times in a day we are told to change our appearance. Sitcoms often portray the pleasingly plump person as a pitiful, pathetic loser and, therefore, the butt of the jokes. We’re encouraged to openly hate our bodies. This becomes a bonding experience with others who have been made to feel the same way. Every type of media offers “tips” about how we can lose weight, firm up our bellies and eliminate the jiggle in our chins and arms, spackle over our facial imperfections or dress to hide all of those problem areas. Heck we’re even reminded of the fashion crimes we commit based on the clothing choices we make—for our age. Apparently older women need to “dress like older women”. Whatever the heck that means. I’m imagining something modest, floaty, Michelle Duggar-like.
And with this in mind, I won’t be shopping for a bikini, I have never been a bikini person. I will, however, be hauling out my one and only swimsuit, wiggling and giggling into it and head off to make good use of our pool. I am tired of being upset for not being good enough to be on the cover of Sports Illustrated. I’m tired of putting my hand up to cover my face when a camera is aimed in my direction. I will just relax and enjoy who I am, this year. I have strengths. I have weaknesses. I have perfections. I have imperfections. I will let people know when I’m not comfortable when they body-shame. To that end, I will try to keep the body-shamers out of my life. Who needs them? Not me.
It’s June, folks. Time for picnics and barbecues and get-togethers with family and friends. It’s time for all of the cool drinks and all of the sunshine—don’t forget to wear your sunglasses and slap on the 45. It’s time to wear clothing that you like, makes you feel comfortable and, most of all, makes you feel happy. We don’t need an influencer to tell us what to wear or how to feel. We don’t need a celebrity to tell us how to make our favourite snack foods healthier. You’re not going to see me sitting around the fire pit wearing a colourful muumuu while pretending a carrot stick is as good as a Lays Potato Chip or a low calorie cracker is as good as a S’More. I’m heading into the mid-seventies, age wise. I have to let myself know it’s okay to be wrinkly, a bit spotty, perhaps saggy, and most definitely greyhaired.
Where are my flip-flops, my marshmallow stick and my glass of pink wine with a side of chips!? I’ll be the happy, older gal floating around on an inflatable flamingo with a parasol in my unbreakable glass! Yep, the old babe with a big smile on her face.
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