The Naked Truth

Most women aren't good naked. We do our best to avoid it. Like my mother who was instructed by nuns in Catholic school to bath with her eyes closed so she wouldn't see herself in the nude, women avoid being seen in the skin by everyone.

It usually results in a barrage of blows to the head. "My hips are so huge. My but is enormous. I have National Geographic tits. When's this belly flapper thing going to go away? My youngest is 5 foot 7 inches. When did I get a wing span? I could parachute with these triceps."

The cruelty of nakedness results in lights off rules in the bedroom and triple locks in the bathroom. Men, of course, don't respond the same way to women's nakedness. While we are obsessing about the length of our armpit hair. They are thinking, "Yeah boobs!"

In terms of men being naked amongst themselves. Just think of all those open shower stalls in men's locker rooms. Urinals? We would have to be serving 10-20 years in minimum security to learn how to put up with that.

My husband just hung up a mirror above the couch in the basement. I work out in the basement. I actually wanted him to do this because I thought it would help me with my form when lifting weights. Little did I know how distracting it would be. From my chin to my calves, I have criticisms. The form I end up watching is not a bicep curl, it's a stomach bulge.

It's very kangarooish actually. Fitting since it housed a couple of kids. They came out of a slit in the stomach too.

My kids and husband make fun of me for sucking in my cheeks when I comb my hair. They've clearly never seen what I suck in when I am lifting weights. I'm surprised I don't pass out. The EMTs from the ambulance announce upon arrival, "Another perimenopausal abdominal reflection hyperventilation during exertion--happens everyday. Nothing goes down faster than a Boomer doing Hip Hop Abs."

It was hot in the basement. No one was home. I was doing my exercise tape, concentrating hard not to pee during jumping jacks, when I whipped off my t-shirt. It was an automatic response, like swatting a mosquito. Then it hit me--me in the mirror.

I was not posing with vacuum packed cheeks and abs, I was jumping. It was jiggling. I was mesmerized by the movement. A wave of white flesh echoing with each jump. My scientific curiosity moved from my stomach to my thighs. It was like something you see flowing in artifical current in the Boston Aquarium. "Yup that's me in motion, half naked. Haven't seen that before."

It ended up being a real inspiration to my workout, a fire under my feet.

I pledged to never eat another carb again. That lasted until lunch.

So I wrote with lipstick on my mirror, "Don't make promises to yourself you can't keep or eat." Then I hung up my "before" picture. It might not be perfect, but it is progress. Does my husband notice that "inch he can pinch?"

No. He sees one thing. "Hey boobs."