I'm Not Sexy

And I know it.

Back in July of last summer, when I was 20 pounds lighter after my cancer diagnosis and radical hysterectomy, I went to the beach and I wore one of my favourite bathing suits. It was a very cheeky, low-cut, burnt orange suit made of a ribbed material that mimicked the velvety look of corduroy. It was the sexiest bathing suit I’ve ever owned and it only ever felt right worn on a decently sexy body. So I only get to wear it during times I am desperately unwell. The last time I’d worn it I was at least 35 pounds lighter and subsisting only on TPN (Total Parenteral Nutrition) delivered straight into my blood, bypassing my painfully inflamed digestive system.

While I was at the beach in July, a woman came up to me and said, “I love your bathing suit!” I had to stop myself from explaining to her that I had just had surgery, and that this body wasn’t my normal body. This body just happened to me. I did not deserve her praise. “This has all been a huge misunderstanding and I am sorry for misleading you,” I wanted to confess.

Now I’m at the beach in Mexico with chemo behind me, but I’m fully in menopause and my body has changed again. This time I’m 25 pounds heavier than I normally am and again a woman comes up to me and says, “I love your bathing suit.” And I have to stop myself from saying, “Oh, thanks. It used to fit me better before now. I’ve had a really hard year. I’ve had surgeries. I’ve had cancer. I’ve had chemo. And now I’m in menopause. I don’t have estrogen. My body has changed so much. I don’t even recognize myself.” This is all one big misunderstanding.

I want to apologize for this body. I want her to understand that what she’s seeing has been mostly out of my control. My thick thighs I inherited from my dad and they’ve always been thick whether I weighed 110 pounds or 190 pounds. I want her to understand that I used to have a waist even as recently as a few months ago, but now, without estrogen, I have lost my curvy figure and it really bothers me. I want her to know I used to be prettier. But the stress and anxiety and trauma that my body has been through over the last year (and over the last eight years, really) has aged me faster than any other time period in my life. I want the people at the beach to understand that my stomach sticks out extra far because of a surgical hernia that makes it impossible to hide in a bathing suit. I want them to know, again, this body wasn’t my fault.

Sitting by the side of the road watching the kids play in a tropical ditch (because what’s more fun than a ditch? A tropical ditch!) I asked Ken to take a photo of me sitting there. “Why?” he asks. A reasonable question. Because I feel pretty right now but I don’t want to live under any disillusions. I want to know the truth.

.I walk into the poolside bathroom and I see a woman inspecting her body in her swimsuit in the mirror above the sink. “You look great,” I tell her. And I mean it. As I’m washing my hands before leaving I too inspect myself. I nod at my reflection. “Not horrible,” I smile. That’s the benchmark now: degrees of horrible.

There are three distinct groups of women at this all-inclusive resort: 1) toned women without children, 2) swollen women with children, 3) soft women done raising children. And I’ve become obsessed with the later group and their individual and collective wisdom. This morning there was a kind looking woman in her 70s at the trolly-stop with her husband. I had to stop myself from grabbing her elbow and in hushed, conspiratorial tones ask her, “Will I ever feel at home in this body that just keeps evolving?” I imagine she leans in, gives me a wink and says, “No. You won’t. But one day you’ll enjoy how your softening body has begun to mimic the softening of your heart.”