How Long is a Minute?

I have been to lots of funerals. In my career as a social worker, I worked almost exclusively with aging, frail adults. Funerals were a job hazard of sorts. Working in a Jewish facility allowed me to be a part of many of the beautiful traditions carried on for thousands of years among Jews. I went to several dozen Jewish services while we lived in Denver. I particularly love the mitzvah of leaving a stone of remembrance on the gravesite of the beloved--an Ebenezer.

I lost a beloved staff member to a sudden heart attack at work one day. Lucky was African American. His funeral was the loudest one I've ever attended. There were equal amounts of singing, wailing and laughing. There were funeral workers at the end of the pews of family members. Their primary job was to catch people who "fell out"--a term, I'd never heard before. When I saw someone "fall out", I realized there was no better way to express this form of grief.

I began reading obituaries during that period. On the rare occasion that I have a newspaper, I still read the obits. I enjoy knowing the highlights of a person's life. I relish stories. I'm fascinated by how those that are left behind choose to express their thoughts.

I have never, ever, ever heard someone mention their beloved's thighs.

"What I remember most about Grammy were her dimple-free thighs." Nope.

"I can only hope that if I'm a mother or a grandmother, I'll have thighs exactly like Memaw." Sniff. Sniff.

So, why in tar nation have I spent at LEAST a minute of every day of my life worried about my thighs???

And how I wish it was ONLY a minute a day. Just for fun, let's do the math with just a minute a day. I'll make it easy and use round numbers. I'll give myself 8 grace years and say I've only been concerned about thighs for 40 years. Thanks to Rent, I know that there are 525,600 minutes in every year.

I've spent a MINIMUM of 21,024,000 minutes loathing my thighs. TWENTY ONE MILLION, TWENTY FOUR THOUSAND MINUTES!!!

The title of my memoir could be: Was I More than my Thighs?

I'm done. I'm unwilling to waste valuable time focused on what, in the end, (pun intended) will return to dust and have no eternal value.

No. I'm not giving up working out. I am committed to do a better job managing my physical fitness. It matters both for me and for those who love me.

But, let's face it.....

I've got cellulite and stretch marks and scars and spider veins that are part of me now. They just are. That's all. If I measure my worth by what I consider my physical limitations, that would be like trying to measure the water in a pool with a yard stick.

If I put a chart down on paper with concentric circles, I KNOW that the people on the inner circles do not think to themselves, "You know, I think I'd like Lori better if she could slide easily into a size 8 pair of jeans." I seriously doubt if there are any people with whom I have contact that base their interaction with me on how much hail damage I have on my backside--even my trainers at the gym.

I've done crazy eating disordered living just to have small-ish thighs in my teen years and 20's--which, by the way I loathed then too.  I've spent more years than I can count saying, "Screw it. Pass the buttercream frosting." Now I'm just making it public that I'm not willing to spend one minute a day trying to have my sister's thighs. She didn't get the cellulite gene. (Curses upon her. wink.)

I did. So what?

I'm gonna honor that my legs are strong. They held me up when I wasn't eating enough to sustain a toddler, much less, a young adult. They helped me walk over 300 miles doing 5 back to back 60 mile 3 Day events to raise money in the fight against breast cancer. I honor the stretch marks under my belly that grew the greatest gift I've ever received. The scar on my thumb reminds me that it's a very bad idea to cut a block of frozen cheese with a regular dinner knife. I can't think of a great way to honor spider veins, cuz I just inherited them. Oddly enough, they don't bother me a bit.

I'm making a commitment to direct more minutes to expanding my compassion for others. I'm expanding my willingness to accept flaws in others--even flaws that hurt me from time to time. Minutes do matter. I'll think about minutes in terms of TREADMILL MINUTES!

Change is slow. I've invested too much time in the negatives of body loathing. But, minute by minute, I am working toward change.

And I happen to think that matters. I'm placing a stone on the gravesite of loathing my hips and thighs. It's there to honor my healthy legs that can run and lunge and skip--even if I'm forced to make unsavory noises to complete those tasks.