The times that I feel moved to post are further and further apart, and that's a good sign. Because what you want to happen when you go through cancer, is for it to begin to recede into the background, eventually. For it to not take up so much space in your head. For your body not to remind you every single minute that it's been traumatized. For your mind to dwell on other things.
Like your thighs.
I have always hated my thighs. They're sturdy. I am not built for speed, instead, I am, as my father has pointed out, built for famine. I am stocky and hardy - and no, not willowy. I always, always have wanted to be willowy.
Well, when I was first diagnosed with cancer in '01, I suddenly realized that I could care less about my thighs. I was so stressed out about not being able to have a baby, having to get chemo, what I was going to do about work, and, well, yes, dying, that my thighs zoomed down and off the "to-worry-about" list. It was refreshing, in a sick way. I was prioritizing, and really, what the hell was I going to do about my thighs, anyway? Gotta work with what you're given. Head down, fought the cancer. Won. Check!
Moving on, the hoopla washed away and gradually, the thigh-angst started up again. As before, I tackled them with squats & lunges and did the best I could to "play up my assets," as they say in Glamour.
And then, whammo, Cancer Round II. And who can worry about thighs when your breasts are being removed? Not me. Again, off the list.
But you know what? They're back. In all their gelatinous glory. Three months of recovery has made me go a little soft all around the edges, and today, I really hit the wall with the thighs. I know it's not right. I'm a middle-aged woman. I'm not supposed to care. But I do. Now that the foobs are squared away, I'm back to squatting, lunging, and angsting.
It's good, right?