Yesterday at the pool, after my swim, as I was struggling to change under my towel, one of the older ladies walked by completely naked. As in, buck. I felt like I was in an episode of Sex and the City, with Samantha plowing through, bush first, and me as Charlotte, in a head-to-toe muumuu, anxiously shuffling through.
I wonder what it is about older women that they feel comfortable enough to strut around in their birthday suits, even though their suits aren’t necessarily as well-pressed as they used to be.
It really isn’t the extra flab that bothers me, it’s the scar. Jason says I’m crazy, but the c section scar really bums me out. I could get all social worky and say that the scar is a permanent reminder of the trauma we went through, the uncertainties with our girls. But, I could also go girly and just say that it’s ugly. The first time I looked at the incision, it reminded me of Heath Ledger as The Joker, the grin that can send shivers down your spine.
Unfortunately, Jas and I both got scars at the same time. His from his pneumothorax and mine from the girls’ section. We’re both super self conscious about them, and neither one of us feels completely whole with them.
The lady in the changeroom must have scars of her own, whether you can see them or not, but she owns them and can strut it like nobody’s business.
While I don’t see myself ditching the towel anytime soon, I can only hope that eventually the scar, and the trauma, fade away.