Body Positive

A couple weeks ago a friend and I took a day trip to Calistoga to visit a spa for a mud bath, mineral bath, steam room and towel wrap. It was a day of rest and relaxation and pampering, much looked forward to. Before going I asked my friend if we would need swimwear for our treatments. Neither of us had done anything quite like this before so neither of us knew what to expect. I decided to call and ask to just to be sure – knowing would help relieve anxiety, wouldn’t it?

The woman on the phone was friendly and cheerful when I called. It was clear that she’d gotten the question before. “Yes, bring a suit for the mineral pools. The mud baths are nude.” Funny how hearing that made my stomach do a flip. Even though I was sure I’d have a private room and wouldn’t actually be naked in front of anyone I still felt slightly queasy.

When we arrived at the spa we were assigned lockers, given giant towels (more like blankets than anything, really) and told to strip. Dutifully we tucked our things into our lockers and undressed with a deftness learned and finely honed in middle school, balancing the towels wrapped around our bodies in one hand while unclasping and tugging at our clothes with the other. It is a funny and humbling thing to be a 30-something woman with the same sensibilities and self-consciousness of a 13 year old. My friend and I were the only ones in the locker room at that point and yet we hid and protected our bodies as if we were strangers.

I was not prepared for what we walked into after we left the locker room. In one large room were several tubs filled with mud, showers, and more tubs full of water. Our spa attendants greeted us, explained the process, and then extended their hands expectantly, ready for our towels.

I experienced a moment of panic. You want me to drop the only thing protecting me from total exposure? You want me to hand over my towel and stand naked in front of you and my friend? I suddenly felt so shy and fragile. For one brief and flashing second I thought about asking if perhaps they had a private room I might use.

Instead, I gritted my teeth, pretended I was at ease, and relinquished what had become my adult security blanket. I stepped into the shower, not bothering to draw the curtain closed, rinsed off and stepped back out. My attendant then guided me to my mud bath and helped me get in. I wriggled and squirmed and sank into the delightfully hot and gloriously obscuring mud until my nakedness was covered.

My friend and I soaked in neighboring mud baths for 15 minutes. I, for one, was coursing with adrenaline as I processed my unexpected, and what felt like public, nakedness. Not only was I suddenly naked in front of one of my closest friends – a woman I have been vulnerable with in many other ways – but also with strangers – clothed strangers.

As I tried to surrender to the calm tugging at me during that mud bath I began to contemplate nakedness, vulnerability and body image. Why was it so uncomfortable to be naked in front of someone that I trusted, who knows me well and whom I know well? Was there an as yet un-experienced power imbalance between the attendants and me because I was forced to be suddenly vulnerable with them while they remained clothed? Why was I feeling such shame and embarrassment about my body? Where did that come from?

Sure, I don’t look the way I would like to. I would like to lose weight. I have stretch marks and cellulite and insane tan lines. I am not hairless or spotless or without scars.  In so many ways I do not fit the standard of beauty I compare myself to, even though I know better than to compare myself with what the media offers. And I reminded myself that I know almost no one who fits that absurd standard and even fewer people who feel good about and happy with their bodies.

I ended up thinking a lot about Anne Lamott and her essay in Traveling Mercies about her “Aunties”. She writes about heading to the beach and being “ambushed” by a group of young, fit teenage girls and the shame she felt standing next to them, comparing her body to theirs. But then she goes back to her hotel room and is filled with affection for her thighs and the rest of her body and the life they represent. As I soaked and steamed and sweat I started thinking about what my body has been through, the places it has taken me, the things I do like about it.

By the end of our time in the spa I began to think about my body differently. It has traveled the country with me. It has packed and unpacked new and old apartments. It has hugged loved ones, offered a shoulder to cry on. It has danced at weddings. It has sweated through Bikram yoga classes and Zumba classes and seasons of jogging. It has slept on the floor at youth retreats, been bruised and sprained from epic dodge ball games. It has climbed up to roofs in Mississippi to help with Katrina relief. It has laughed deeply and often. It has been wracked with sobs in grief and in celebration. It is mine. I would not trade this body and the experiences it has lived through and the people it has loved for anything.

Eventually, as I laid on the table, my towel draped over me and light, plinky music playing in the back ground I began to wonder about how I might take better care of my body, how I might show it appreciation and tenderness. I committed to more fresh fruits, vegetables and water. I committed to using it more often to run and to do yoga and to play. I committed to getting better and more consistent sleep. I committed to pedicures and massages. And when I can’t afford a pedicure or a massage I committed to bubble baths and hammocks and lotion. I committed to sunscreen. I committed to more laughter and more touch. I committed to less magazines and commercials and other such things that perpetuate the unhealthy game of comparing myself to fiction.  I committed to surrounding myself with good friends who are supportive and encouraging and committed to being body positive with me.

I have been wondering, since, about our aversion to nudity. It seems to permeate not just to our bodies but to vulnerability in general in this culture. What would it be like if we practiced exposing ourselves more often, in healthy and constructive ways? What would it be like if we supported others as they practiced this same thing with us?