Let’s Get Naked With the Lights On

I like my body in the way that I appreciate its functions. I love the breadth of my shoulders, the shape and dexterity of my hands, the length of my legs. That I have no trouble leaping out of bed every morning, no stirrings of chronic pain or an injury that flares up sporadically, debilitating me. I love it for it guides me through the world unburdened. It takes me to beaches where I can feel the sand between my toes, alerts me when something is too hot in my mouth, enables me to swim through the water, walk, traverse, explore wherever I might find desirable.

But like many, I have always felt its shape, the soft bits, the moles, the coloured-ness of my teeth, isn’t appealing or congenially attractive the way I’ve been taught to believe. So much so that even now, I sometimes laugh with my hand over my mouth, squeeze my abs when trying to appear slim, tighten my jaw muscles to give a stronger illusion of a jawline, and ultimately avoid sharing too much of the rot under my skin.

I don’t do much to change these aspects of my physical state, be it permanent or temporary. I carry them as if they’re unique charms on the limited edition bracelet of me, handmade carvings you can’t find elsewhere. I know I could spend easily hundreds of dollars and hours every year to have everything tied and packaged in a sweet little bow; the hair on my body lasered, waxed, bleached, cuticles pushed so hard up into themselves an infection occurs, my teeth chemically whitened, hell I could go to Thailand for a new set if I really wanted to invest my house deposit savings, but I don’t. And I won’t.

The mix of why is because I am far more entertained doing something else with my time, the money I’d spend on such activities I could do a plethora of other things I’d much prefer, the maintenance schedule alone sounds like a kind of boxy hell reserved just for me, and if I’m truly honest with myself, I like that it makes me human in a way I can only feel. Not that others don’t feel the same way about their bodies, but that no one cares about mine with such investment, like how I couldn’t give any size of care about yours. Yet the presence of all the little imperfections still bugs me.

I notice when I am doing it, hyper-fixating on my charms, it happens by keeping people at arm’s length as if a cockroach is about to climb out of my mouth and make the inhabitants of the room scream. So I expand the shiny silicone mould over my rough, rouge nature, purse my lips, and do my best to keep unthreatening. But I’m quite honestly tired of doing that the way I’ve been tired and let down for years that I don’t look like the fictional character in my dreams.

This kind of buffering, volunteer self-muting seeps into all the tiny facets of who I am, keeping my life separate as though I am watching through a snow globe, imagining how lovely life could be without ever being fully in it. As though everything I want to say will expose the shadows on my teeth, or my unflattering posture as I sit, causing those around me to be repelled, disgusted, and dismayed. I don’t want to care any more, because I know my best work is hidden in my lopsided breasts and the dark singular hair under my belly button; it’s sitting, waiting, under my clothes, begging for air, to be freed, and finally watered so it can bloom.

It stops me from writing what I want to write, saying what I want to say; it stops me from cackling the mad-witch laugh I inherited from my mother, from using my limbs and malleable face to tell jokes and portray skits where I mimic the characters I met that day. I hate that we’ve been subtly coerced into acting and appearing so that we never upset anyone— hell, if I upset you, good! Choke on it! Works for me!

I love the sky even when it’s overcast and filled with gloom; I love the moon even when I cannot see it; my friends when they are sick; the bush trails when they are filled with potholes and leeches. I appreciate the myriad forms all my favourite things take; I love when they expose their underbellies, their truths, their wavering nature. Most of all, I am flattered that they could be so naked in front of me and have no fear in doing so. The least I could do in return is expose the same flesh.