More than ten years ago I participated in a mormon version of The Vagina Monologues. I published that monologue yesterday. A few weeks ago I was asked to contribute a follow-up… and that's what's below the fleur-de-kos.
Bare Naked Lady — The Sequel
It’s been more than a decade since I, um, bared my soul and revealed my husband’s and my naked rebellion against conservative clothing conventions. In the interim, we moved to Europe, and I gained another 30 pounds on top of the 30 I already wanted to lose.
Although I live part of the year in Berlin these days, our own little row house is in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere in the foothills of the Alps in southeastern France. There is a nudist colony about 3 miles from here, and another one about 8 miles away… but I’ve never gone to either one. Nor have I been back to Agde, France, the “naturist” capital of Europe.
Go naked? Who, me? Now? Surely you jest!
Is my “recovered modesty” due to having repented for my past "sin" of letting it all hang out? Hell no! Or is it rather due to my increased flab or simple country-living inertia? Probably a bit of both; however, I confess that the jiggling flesh of my upper arms has induced me to avoid sleeveless tops and to search for tops with sleeves that go down to my elbows, so it seems that flab is much more of an impediment to nudity than inertia.
But let me back up a little. During the interim, I also went through menopause. I acknowledge right up front that I had it easier than a lot of women I know: Yes, I went through about 18 months of intermittent waking up in puddles of sweat at night, of kicking off covers and pulling them back over me all night long. There was a period (well, no, there were no more periods, ha ha) — anyway, for a while all I needed to do was simply think about hot flashes, et voilà! Instant heat!
While the “instant heat” occasionally proved helpful in wintertime, overall, hot flashes were very annoying. I still get them on occasion, but rarely — just enough to keep me humble and empathetic toward my kind. (By the way, the French for “hot flash” is bouffée de chaleur — a “puff of heat,” though for my money I prefer the phrase “power surge” instead — but I digress.)
What I did not expect with menopause, however, was how damned itchy I got “down there.” And pardon me for bringing this up, but labia do not respond well to being scratched. I am grateful for the remedies that brought relief. (I’m also grateful not to have had to deal with hormone replacement therapy, though I worry at times about osteoporosis, which not even the savings on tampons and pads can mitigate.) Still, I was luckier than most.
But while we’re on the subject, let’s talk about vaginas and menopause. Two words: DRY and LUBE. More than enough said.
OK, so I’m older, grayer, and fatter. The older was inevitable, given that I haven’t cast off this mortal coil. I have consciously kept the gray despite one quite successful foray into auburn hair dyes. (Part of this decision had to do with my working as a secondary school principal in France for three years — I felt the gray gave me some authority in a setting in which our tiny American program was systemically dissed and targeted for destruction — but that is a story for another time.)
But the fat… the fat. Ay, there’s the rub — especially between my inner upper thighs, alas.
Understand, for about the first 35 to 40 years of my life, I was one of those hated creatures who could eat anything in any quantity with complete and total impunity. It was next to impossible to gain an ounce. When time caught up to my thyroid, all that changed, of course, but it took a whole lot longer to adjust my eating habits. (I’m still not fully adjusted.)
Much as I disliked the more full-bodied me, however, it was the diagnosis of a minor heart problem a couple of years ago now that put the lie to my carefree attitude of
It’s my body and I’ll die if I want to,
die if I want to,
die if I want to —
You would die, too, if this happened to you.
(Yes, to the tune of "It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To.")
I decided that would rather not die at this point, thank you very much. So after a brief and disgusting fling with the Atkins diet a while back, I’ve now moved to a mostly plant-based and meat-free diet, and the pounds are slowly, SLOWLY starting to come off. My knees and ankles and feet doubtless appreciate the gradual reduction in load.
Beyond occasional mountain hikes and kayak outings over the years since our move to Europe, it took the cardiac diagnosis to finally induce me to become more physically active again — an integral component of the whole “staying alive” strategy. I joined a gym in Berlin — “Mrs Sporty” (no, really, that’s the name!) — and I also started playing ping-pong. (I had no idea what a serious sport this is — my little French village has a tennis de table club to which I belong, but the Germans are complete and total fanatics. My Tischtennis club in Berlin houses a women’s professional team, and I’ve taken lessons from the 2008 European women’s singles champion — but again I digress.)
The increased activity was helpful… up until I got injured. (Tore a calf muscle at Mrs Sporty and then tore ligaments in my other knee while sightseeing in Italy.) I’m slowly getting back into things, and it is a joy to play and exercise again, regardless of its affect on weight loss.
But does all this mean that if I drop more weight, I will end up visiting my local nudist colony and once again frolic in the buff?
Frankly, having gone to a beach on the Mediterranean just the other day, I finally realized that there isn’t much difference between the amount of flab exposed when wearing my swimsuit versus not wearing my swimsuit. The blindingly white flesh of my too-dimpled thighs is visible regardless, even while wearing a t-shirt to ward off sunburn and skin cancer.
Just overcoming my reticence to be seen in public in my swimsuit seems like enough for now. (I mean, do I really care all that much about hanging out with other naked people? Meh. Not really.) Still, on the strength of this recent beach-side experience, it wouldn’t take much to persuade me to take it off, take it all off again, baby.