My Mother/My Body

So, last summer’s clothes don’t fit – all the cute dresses nip and tuck in all the wrong places. And I won’t even attempt to zip the shorts – not gonna happen.

My breasts are matronly, my belly bulges, and my hips got wide – I’ve got my mother’s body. In the past, I’d cringe when I’d gain weight and more closely resemble my mom – the whole family hated her big pendulous breasts, belly and hips, particularly her.

But even though we shared a physique, we traveled such different paths. I made my body and my eating disorder my life. My mom lived life to the fullest. She was cool, interesting and much loved and respected.

Mom was super smart and graduated high school early. She supported herself through Julliard by teaching piano. As a 17 year old from little Clifton, NJ, my mom moved to New York City and shared an apartment on the upper Westside. In 1945.

Later, she supported the three of kids as a piano teacher. Seasoned pianists traveled from all over the country to study with her. There were always students, from far and wide, staying at our house and playing one of her many pianos.

Mom loved to travel and learn languages. She lived for the opera, ballet, theater and good literature.

Mom would do anything and wanted to try everything. When my mom got her devastating Parkinson’s diagnosis, she booked a flight to Thailand, so she could ride a camel before she died.

Cool lady. People flocked to her. Everyone was attracted to my mother. Men loved her.

And no one cared about her breasts, belly or hips.

I am proud to have my mother’s body. I am proud to be her daughter.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s