I’m turning 65 at the very end of December. I wear moisturizer but no makeup, and I don’t color my hair. (My brown has been overtaken by gray streaks and blond—I’ve never been a blond, nor ever wanted to be one, but since I’ve moved to Florida, the sun has had other plans for me and my hair.)  I often feel like Dorothy’s Tin Man—my joints in need of a spritz from an oil can—and the flesh on my arms and hands is beginning to resemble crepe paper. But it’s not aging that makes me feel bad about my body. It’s my belly. It’s always been my belly. 

I’ve been on a life-long mission to rid myself of that belly. Tried every diet, every exercise routine. I know I am not alone in having thrown countless hours and dollars down this dreadful time- and money-wasting drain. I probably should have spent less energy on changing my shape and more on changing my mindset. But would it have worked? It is my body, after all. But is it my choice? Deciding not to color my hair is a choice—easily and, for me, happily made. But when it comes to more complicated areas of body image, I resist the word.

I was born into a world dominated by the male gaze. Took it as truth. Internalized it as my own standard of beauty. And then I raged against it. And raged some more. But my anger—and its intensity—always felt a little false, an insincere justification; and all too often, my rage turned inward. I wonder, now, about the very term “male gaze.” My mother’s gaze was more “male” than my father’s. Mine, more “male” than my (second) husband’s. Our spouses desired us when we felt undesirable. Go figure. I know people oppressed often take the judgments of those who oppress them and make them their own. But I’m no fan of the oppressed/oppressor dichotomy. If I am to be a woman with agency—and, of course, I would like to be—I cannot turn around and blame the culture for my feelings and judgments. If I am not the problem when it comes to my judgments about my body, I certainly play a large role in them. Cheers for accountability! But are my judgments a choice? That word again! 

As I age, I am getting better at embracing my round, soft curves. At choosing to. And while this decision may seem to be more about diction than meaning, I prefer using the word “choosing” to “choice.” Choice feels too one and done, while choosing to accept and, dare I say, love my body is an action I strive to repeat every time I pass a mirror, look at a photo of myself, try on new clothes. I’m grateful for this choosing. It’s a rich and generous path, an ongoing process and journey—one on which I hope to continue, long after my welcome-to-Medicare birthday in December.