It’s been bugging me as of late that I don’t have a body blog. What exactly is a “body blog” you ask? Well, hell if I know. It’s just stuck in my head.
A body. I live inside one. So do you. Unless you are a disembodied spirit reading this, in which case… cool! I’d love to have followers on more than one plane of existence. But back to bodies (no offense to the disembodied spirits), I can’t stop thinking about them. Physical body. Damn, her body’s tight. Check out his body. Body of work. Body of proof. Body of text. Paint and body shop. Body building. Body mass index. Body fat calculator. Bodies, the exhibition. Adrien Body. Wait, that’s Brody. But he’s got a body. A nice long skinny body. And when his body got all up in Beyonce’s luscious scrumptious body, in Cadillac Records, well, my body got pretty turned on. But enough.
I called this Her Body Politic because “the” body politic was already taken (and also refers to a 70’s gay Canadian monthly magazine), and also because I think Woman, and Her Body has become, maybe even more so as of late, a political issue, and a political statement. It seems that a woman can walk out her door, and by that very act alone, be a political statement. What we wear, what we eat, whether or not we marry, who we marry, what reproductive choices we make, how much we weigh, how big or little our tits are, how we walk, how high we hold our heads, how often we open up our mouths for ourselves, our girlfriends, our sisters, our lovers, our mothers, makes a political statement.
I was born into a female body. I have been told I was fat when I wasn’t fat. I have been overweight and told I had the “perfect body.” I am in my 40’s and have never been married. I have never had children, which was my choice. I have been on oral contraception most of my adult life, because I don’t want children, and because my periods were debilitating without it. My breasts are probably not the same size as yours, nor are they even the same size as each other. I have scars on my arms and legs. I put them there. I have scars on my heart. Life put them there. I have numerous tattoos. I do not “dress my age.” Hollywood and the Fashion Industry would consider me obese, but then they think a size 6 is “plus-size.” I refuse to diet. I refuse to throw up my meals. I refuse to starve myself on purpose. I exercise when, and if I feel like it. I am hypothyroid. What, and how much I eat is nobody’s business but I bet it’s less than you think it is if you are judging me based on the size of my jeans. I hate buying clothes, but I love buying lingerie. I might be wearing some right now, but not letting anyone see it. Sometimes I look at myself and think I am a straight-up disaster. Sometimes I look at myself and think it’s irresponsible to be this sexy.
I am a woman. I am a political statement.