I’m sorry I don’t appreciate you enough. I’ve called you flabby, pasty, clumsy, and weak. I’ve torn out your hairs, baked your skin and painted your nails. Sometimes I feed you garbage and keep you up too late at night. I’ve occasionally drowned you in alcohol and once threw you out of an airplane, but you haven’t abandoned me yet.
You never complain when I scowl at you in the mirror, curse your aches and pains, or pick at your spots. You merely sigh, and put up with me plucking out white hairs and dressing you in skinny jeans. You must be feeling your age, because sometimes you leak gas or fluids. I compare you to others, when in fact none can compare to you.
I’m disappointed when it appears you are not on board with my plans-like being unusually fit, fabulous and fertile. I’ve railed at you for seeming dysfunctional, broken and abnormal, when in fact you’ve taught me perseverance and have healed from incredible wounds.
You keep giving. You’ve given me a son. You’ve stretched like a rubber band and (mostly, amazingly) have snapped back into shape. You carried me over mountains and through a marathon. You can stretch and bend and lift and carry and hug. You are the vessel God crafted for my soul, and I thank you for teaching me patience, acceptance, and love for myself.
Bring on the wrinkles and grey hair already. You deserve it.