My Body, My Self

That title resonates with women of my generation. Everyone knew someone who had one and was willing to share.

The book introduced us to ourselves, with mirrors and contortions and sympathy and understanding.

This was before full frontal nudity was a cable tv standard.  This was when I Am Curious Yellow's foreign film cachet combined with a flaccid phallus drew college students to campus movie theaters, only to leave long hours later, wondering why they'd spent the time.

I was thinking about all this as I waited to ask my massage therapist a question.  "Where exactly does my psoas connect to the front of my hip?" I want to place my rubber therapy ball correctly when I'm doing my homework, and I couldn't be sure I was there.

There is up close and personal to parts you don't normally touch in public.  There is why I switched to a female therapist.  There is where she was moving my fingers so I could be sure I was feeling the right spot.  There is what we were examining in the hallway outside the dressing rooms, off the main studio floor but still visible to anyone using the space.

I wasn't bothered.

I can't imagine G'ma in a similar situation, although I can't imagine G'ma in tights and a tank top, either.  I can imagine what she's thinking right now: "At least go inside and close the damn door!"
But, why?  It's my body, my self.

And it's going to carry me to the Sky Deck of the Sears Tower on November 6th.  I'm going to touch whatever I need to touch to help it do just that.

Times have surely changed.