THE NOT SO INCREDIBLE SHRINKING WOMAN

I’m shrinking. Well, I’ve shrunk. Mostly in the past year. Literally. Physically. Nothing incredible. About ¾ of an inch. I find this especially interesting since I’m actively expanding. I moved across the country and started writing again. My world has gotten so much bigger in the last 12 months, and I feel as though I’m growing in tandem.

A few weeks ago, I had my first “well” visit with a new doctor. She was lovely- kind, funny, down to earth, and in midlife. She didn’t address the decrease in my previously 5-foot 2-inch stature, but I felt quite comfortable bringing it up in our discussion. I explained that I was certain this change had come about due to my lack of stretching, adamant that once I reimplemented my evening ritual, I would get back at least a half inch. She patiently allowed me to prattle on until completion and encouraged me to stretch if it made me feel good. Then the gentle reminder that this was in fact a part of aging.

I’m fortunate to be considered healthy. In the past 53 years I’ve had minimal ailments and injuries. I don’t need many medications. The few I’m prescribed I take semi-electively, more out of an abundance of precaution than requirement. I incorporate probiotics, multivitamins, glucosamine, magnesium, and creatine unsure whether they’re helping or merely doing no harm. I’m thoughtful about nutrition and exercise regularly. I don’t smoke and stopped drinking alcohol over a year ago. Yet I’ve taken my vitality for granted, not being able to imagine a reality where I might have long-term limitations.

Before this trip to the doctor, I had a routine mammogram. Two days later I was informed of an irregularity and was called back for additional imaging and an ultrasound. Luckily the next available appointment was just five days later. I only had five days to ruminate over all the possible outcomes. It could be nothing. It could be something. It could be something, but not cancer. It could be cancer. I thought about my breasts and how it would be sad to not have them anymore. They’re saggy and stretch-marked, deflated balloons, but mine. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame them for wanting off. It’s not as though I’ve expressed any admiration of them lately.

Over the past half century, my body has pretty much responded on demand. She’s done many incredible things such as growing and birthing two thriving babies. I’ve always asked a lot of her including (but not limited to) years of endurance running without consistently prioritizing adequate fuel or proper recovery, and decades of shit talk. I’ve treated her as though her primary purpose has been to look a specific way. These criticisms and expectations haven’t been restricted to my chest, no part of my physique off limits. I wouldn’t consider talking to anyone else the way I’ve debased her, myself.

I’m kind of a control freak so part of my processing the probabilities of malignancy turned to bargaining. Imagining I had some semblance of power over the impending tests made me feel better. If I’m OK, I’ll stop joking around about getting a boob job. I’ll stop referring to my breasts as pendulums. Hell, if I’m not OK I’ll stop. This is bullshit. I know better. And I do. I’m a Behavior Change Specialist, at least according to a personal training continuing ed certification I’ve completed. And while I know how to non-judgmentally guide clients through the stages of change, I usually expect too much of myself. I find it challenging to set realistic timelines when it comes to my own leveling up.

I spent a lot of time lost in thought over that seemingly eternal five-day period. Amongst these reflections, contemplating what it means to be healthy and fit. Of course, these concepts aren’t foreign to me. I’m a personal trainer and a human woman after all. But perhaps after all the years of regarding my own fitness as either a look or the mastery of a specific physical skill, my definition must shift with my changing body.

I hardly considered middle age in my twenties and thirties. But as I entered my forties and had technically arrived, I regarded that time of life as a scary mystery that awaited me in the future. I was still having my period and running marathons. I mostly felt young (whatever that means). I didn’t know anyone who had gone through “the change,” which I’d then mindlessly presumed was synonymous with entry to midlife. However, I now realize there were likely a sea of women surrounding me in peri-menopause, probably many who’d made in through to the other side. But we didn’t talk about it, we don’t discuss it- hence the terrifying enigma.

I’m OK! I skipped out of that breast imaging center with not quite a new lease on life, but a deeper appreciation for the one that I inhabit. I’m thankfully still a healthy person and understand that part of this proclamation includes taking responsibility for my fitness, my wellbeing, in an honest way. I don’t adhere to the “everything happens for a reason” party line. I find that saying as annoying and void of meaning as “it’s all good.” But I digress. I do believe certain challenges in life can serve as lessons if we’re open to that possibility. I’ve decided that when I can self-advocate, speak up and out about all of the things, I can finally own my messy and precious life.

I know, “loving your body” is currently a buzz worthy campaign. But I think that unrealistic concept belongs under the defective umbrella of toxic positivity. Rather than striving for complete adoration, I’m hopeful that my period of transactional body tolerance will at last give way to an era of unconditional acceptance. I’m trying not to beat myself up for years of energy wasted on self-deprecation, ignorance of my lack of self-awareness. Instead, I’m choosing to focus on moving forward and doing better. It takes at least 90 days to create a new habit, so I’ll offer myself grace as I ease towards removing negative self-talk from my vocabulary. But starting tomorrow, before I cuddle up on the couch with my husband, I’ll be down on the floor stretching.