all of the selves we Have ever been
This pandemic is turning into an anatomy class. Remote learning--adult version. It started with two-for-one meat sales. Last week’s lesson was on butts. Which turned out to be shoulders. Today’s class is on legs. More precisely, thighs. And I haven’t seen this many thighs since 1965 when my parents took me to watch the Rockettes perform at Radio City Music Hall. Unfortunately, the thighs before me are all skin and bones. Intervention is needed. I call on the sharp and trusty tomato knife in the back row of my utensil drawer. As I work to de-skin and de-bone the chicken, my hands and the knife become coated in a thin layer of fat. Everything is slippery. I hope that I will not end up an amputee. The loss of some fingers would obliterate any financial gains from the two-for-one sale and certainly lead to a failing grade. My ancient cavewoman instinct is to grab the meat in my bare hands and tear it apart. I wrestle with this call of the wild and quickly triumph over my primitive urge. Though I am a modern, civilized, and educated woman, I only have so much self-control, and thus I limit myself to preparing just one package of thighs per day. As I work, I have a bird’s eye view of the upper leg, its structure and its strength. I picture a live hen--short, pencil-thin lower legs and chubby thighs, and I wonder: do chickens have knees? Is any part of a chicken’s leg called a calf? And why are poultry legs called drumsticks? The barnyard is rife for body image issues! This deep thinking leads me to ponder the preoccupation human females have with their own thighs. To understand that anatomy angst requires history, not science. I am pretty sure it all started with mini-skirts way back in the 1960s. Once hemlines began rising, a woman could no longer hide her long-leg girdle, garter belt, or her hamstrings. Pantyhose entered the picture, a temporary relief from the ties that bind, but they did little to conceal. The thighs were at constant risk of exposure. There would be no more bending at the waist. It was all knee action. If a woman forgot herself, it was gluteus maximus! If a really groovy gal decided to pair a mini skirt with some thigh high boots, she was trapped in a virtual body cast. A woman dressed in that combo could not bend at the waist or the knees. So, she might as well dance. Maybe she could get away with the Twist, Mashed Potato, Hitch Hike, or a cautious Funky Chicken. Crouching for the Monkey, or raising arms overhead for the Swim might put her moon as well as her thighs on display. You don’t have to be an astronomer to get the picture. Decades later, and just as women’s clothes were evolving into styles more comfortable and practical than the mini-dress, leggings hit the market followed quickly by their evil stepsisters, jeggings. To borrow one of my mother’s famous and colorful sayings, if you want to look like a stuffed sausage, try a pair. To say that leggings or jeggings cover your thighs is a mere legal technicality. If a woman wearing leggings has cellulite, we’ll know. Just sayin’… Now the evil sisters, leggings and jeggings, don’t just have it out for women, they like to trick their boyfriends by asking the loaded question, “Do I look fat in these?” Face it guys, you might as well drink poison. Perhaps that is what really happened to Romeo. Back in the days when women were obsessed with their waistlines and tight corsets, Juliet probably asked her beau, “Does this dress make me look fat?” Romeo took the bait. Juliet passed out from outrage and humiliation, and Romeo had no choice but to kill himself. Sorry, I’ve digressed from science to history to astronomy, and now we are talking Shakespeare. Meat sales really are an education! Somewhere between mini-skirts and leggings, there were tortuous exercises to achieve toned thighs. I don’t believe that is really possible, but women made Suzanne Somers rich by purchasing the Thigh Master. Or maybe it was the women’s husbands who were buying up the videos of Suzanne Somers doing the Thigh Master…That progressed to an obsession with the width of a woman’s thigh gap. Again, is a thigh gap even possible? But that is all to be dissected in the advanced class. I am still in Anatomy 101 and trying to find the answers to a few more basic questions: Why is a shoulder called a butt? And a leg called a drumstick? Do chickens have knees? And once I’ve mastered thighs, what’s next in the two-for-one meat aisle?
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A storm is coming. I feel it as soon as I open my eyes. There is a change in temperature, humidity, air pressure, and the rhythm of my own heart. I awaken feeling both cautious and expectant. Outside my window, the world is upside down. The sky looks like a turbulent sea. Dark clouds tumble and crash like powerful waves rushing for the shore. I can smell the Atlantic Ocean from my third-floor-perch in Ohio. The everyday sounds of summer are quashed along with the sunshine. Absent is the roar of passing traffic. No doors creak open or slam shut. Neighbors’ voices are silent. Not even the birds are singing. The wind supplies the only soundtrack. Air moves through the trees whooshing and whistling. An empty soda can skips and scrapes across the pavement. The windows rattle, and the Venetian blinds bounce and bang against the window sill. I roll the tape and hear the voices of my parents saying, “Move away from that window!” There was a family thunderstorm protocol. As children do, we mirrored our parents when danger called. A storm was alive, like a stranger lurking outside the door. Children did what parents instructed. We mimicked the same serious, pensive moods of the adults. If we were playing outdoors as a storm drew near, we continued our activities, living on the edge, trusting that parents were ever alert and all-knowing. At the first distant flash of lightening or a warning crack of thunder, moms made haste to remove the whipping, snapping laundry from backyard clotheslines. The mother-sirens screamed, and the children scrambled. Bring in the toys! Find the dog! GET. INSIDE. NOW. Annual viewings of The Wizard of Oz provided children of my generation with effective storm education. We understood the trouble that comes to a child who fails to heed the word NOW. Once indoors it was off with electrical devices. Unplug the TV. That was surge protection. We drew the draperies and stayed away from windows and doors. Children found quiet things to do. We feigned distraction while remaining wary. Coloring books and Nancy Drew, Lincoln Logs and Hardy Boys kept us company. We were happy to have shelter. As the storm played out, we shuddered at strong claps of thunder and feared that pelting rain might break the glass. Despite its threatening power, there was beauty and majesty to a thunderstorm. Even as little children, we grasped a spiritual element to the weather and an understanding of things not just greater than us but forces greater than our parents too. When it was over, we were glad that our house had not fallen on us, though some magical ruby slippers would have been nice. We were equally grateful to be doing some minor clean-up out in the yard instead of wandering lost on a terrifying yellow-brick road. Occasionally, some items that had gotten loose in the wind might need to be returned to neighbors. That exchange usually led to some conversations about relief and gratitude. As the rain moves in, I find myself wishing we had been more careful with our words when the coronavirus slipped across the border. What if officials had described it as a weather event and a storm instead of an invisible enemy and a war? We live with seasonal weather events. We know what steps to take in a storm. Wars are unfamiliar; we don’t know what to do. Storm protocols demand compassion and cooperation. Wars breed hatred and mistrust. Warfare encourages resistance and violence. In a storm people choose safety, not sides. Rain and storms are temporary; they blow over. War changes life permanently; enemies are forever. We are happy to take shelter in a storm. Hiding from an enemy fuels outrage. We feel storms coming and a corresponding sense of urgency to calmly prepare and protect. The threat of war creates disbelief, naysayers, propagandists, and chaos. Storms bring out a spirit of community both in preparation and in recovery. In war, people hold their ground and their grudges; they fight over the spoils. During storms we remain vigilant but hopeful. Realistic and prayerful. We acknowledge the spiritual elements of nature and try to find meaning in our tempestuous circumstances. But in war, hope, faith, and meaning become casualties. Some people lose God and never recover their souls. It is easy to return a t-shirt or a pair of pajamas that blew from the clothesline in a storm. It is not so easy to gather up the bodies of neighbors that litter our lawns after a war. We can replace the roof and remodel the kitchen when the storm has passed. It is much harder to restore a livelihood that is in shambles or suture the shredded self-esteem that hangs from broken tree limbs. The insurmountable grief following war makes storm clean-up seem easy. Dorothy waited too long to get into the storm shelter. That decision led to an exhausting and uncertain journey. We sympathize. We are tired too. Our words matter in characterizing the things that happens to us. Hopefully, during the remainder of this pandemic, this virus storm, we can come to our senses, summon our courage, and find our hearts. We do not need ruby slippers to remind us that in a storm, there is no place like home. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
April 2024
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