Hello, the Internet.
As Holiday dogma dictates, the end of the year blog post reserve is intended exclusively for resolution-making, wish-compiling and drawing the line underneath the lengthy list of things we resolved and did, resolved and didn’t do and didn’t even resolve to do in the passing year. Me, on the other hand? I never make New Year’s resolutions just because I don’t believe in the future – we make our own. Therefore my job is much easier. Also, disappointment is kind of less disappointing if you don’t make promises you know you can’t keep.
Anyway, this blog post is definitely not about wishes and resolutions, is all I’m saying. It’s about something that came to my mind several times in the passing week. As I have come home for the hols – which I was super-excited about, and still am, – my mom decided it’s high time for me to pay a visit to every single doctor like ever. Not that I mind, considering I effed-up my health quite enough to want some medical advice. Anyway, this thing that my lengthy introduction is leading up to came to my mind in several situations, the most prominent of them including while I was getting my back massage (for my horrendous back problems courtesy of my mattress at the apartment I’m renting – I think it’s probably as old as Jesus this year) and also while I had my legs over my head in the gynaecologist’s seat. Yeah. Genius thoughts come in the most awkward of places.
I realised – with some discomfort, I might add, as there was quite a bit of prodding going on, – that I have developed a very off-hand attitude to my own body. A couple of years ago, maybe even several months ago I would have never agreed to go to a gynaecologist who’s a guy. And even though it still remains a mystery to me as to why a man would want a job involving looking at women’s ‘special places’ every hour on the hour for the rest of their lives, I was totally comfortable with dropping trou and letting him do… well, you know. Same with the massage specialist – who has also been coaching me with my obsessive eating thoughts via e-mail. When he told me to get undressed and get on the table I didn’t even flinch.
Maybe I’m just growing up and learning to see them as professionals simply doing their jobs – and the teenage shyness that we all naturally possess in the beginning has just faded away together with the pimples and the puppy fat. But perhaps I have come to see my body as something else – something more mechanical than personal.
“…the brain’s what counts, everything else is transport.” (Sherlock BBC)
See what I mean? Before, my body was my body, something personal, something wholly mine. Now, though, as I have discussed it and changed it and tortured it and god knows what, it’s become more of a commodity. Now, I’m not saying I’m very comfortable with stripping off my clothes and going streaking across the city of Madrid, but when it comes to displaying what I look like, it’s become much easier.
And even though I suppose it’s good, on one hand, to be comfortable enough to show all of yourself when the opportunity calls for it – for example, in the doctor’s office, – I also feel like I treasure it less. Whether that’s good or bad is up for debate but when it comes down to it, we’re all just a mass of atoms, aren’t we? Whatever drives us is what is beyond the body. I personally think it’s the electric signals our brain cells generate. Some people call it spirit, or soul. Whatever it is, it’s more important than the actual pulley-and-bolt contraption of bones and joints we depend on for daily existence.
Whether our bodies are wholly our own, or whether they are a public commodity because in the end they are all the public is able to see of you, we’ll never know and never agree on.
Just a thought that came to me in the gyno’s chair.