When I see old photos of myself, I'm sometimes surprised by the ways my body has changed, and numerous times. All the bodies I've lived in. Teenage waif. Undergrad, youthful and slim. Married woman, more mature and womanly--hips, curves, stature. Then more so, a radiant grad student, solid. Post South America, ragged, brittle, near-broken, but alive. Scarred. Pregnant glowing orb, ha ha! Now a mother, some softer version of myself. And again, scarred. Who will I be next?
When I read about teenagers increasingly opting for cosmetic surgery in search of some ridiculous ideal, I think, they have no idea that their bodies will continue to change. They think what they have right now is it, done, all they'll have for good.
The stories of my life are being written and rewritten on my body, as well as in my soul.
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