Love your body?

We are told by many - inspired by good intentions, corporate profit or a hope that if larger people buy soap (with one third moisturizing cream) that they'll use more than skinny people (just on a square meterage basis) - that I should love the beautiful body I have.  Numerous Facebook posts assure me that all I need to be bikini-body, beach-ready beautiful this summer is to put on a bikini. Honestly, I'm not so sure about that - and nor is my wife. In fact,  I'm not sold on the idea that I should love my body at all; it's a complete bastard.

For a start, it keeps lying to me and no relationship of love can exist without trust. It tells me things like, "You could really go some Maccas right now" or "That felt good,  pour yourself another red wine; it'll make you feel even better!" And it doesn't and I don't.  So I vow that I'm not falling for that kind of visceral manipulation ever again.  Then it waits for a moment of weakness and plays me like a harp. It's like the psycho ex your father warned you about. How can I love it?

And when it's not being manipulative, it's behaving like a six year old.  Just settled in for some study, glasses on, chair comfortable and it comes up to me:

"Dad, I'm hungry."
"Not now,  you've just had dinner."
"But dad, I'm really hungry now!"
"You're not,  you're just bored."
"No! I need a chocolate. Dad!"

And so on until I give in for the sake of piece and quiet.

Or my libido gets bored. At the seminar, settling in to listen or circulating to meet some interesting people. A tap on the shoulder:
 
"Hey", tap tap tap, "She's cute."
"Not now."
"Yeah, but check her out!"
"This is not the time and place.  Just settle down."
"Let's go and talk to her."
"Just shut up."
"All right, all right but you're missing out.  I'll be back later in any case."

And what about those bad days when the black dog is scratching at the back door?  A true friend would give me some good advice like "go for a walk" or "get some gardening done" - anything to get the blood pumping and some natural light on my face. Not my body, though. Its friendly advice is to climb back into bed, curl up in the fetal position and hope that everything goes away. With friends like these ...

While on the subject of the brain, I'm sure my body is sneaking in at night and screwing with the wiring. Stuff I thought I knew has disappeared. Faces and names don't match up any more; I can confidently call my daughter Bruce and the dog keeps telling me to stop calling him Shirley.  Psychologists tell me that I might have vivid memories of things that never happened and will forget almost everything that actually did. The only things that are stuck there, apparently,  are traumatic things that are soldered in place.  In all other cases, my body is functioning like a switchboard operator with a drinking problem and too much time on its hands.

Good or bad friend,  my body has been with me for forty odd years now (never you mind about how big  the 'odd' is) and, at the very least,  we should have a mutual respect for each other and an understanding of and support for each other's goals in life. Forty years and, just as I've started to get my act together,  it's heading off to do its own thing - some friend!  Confident and personable,  able to talk to the ladies at last and my body is sticking its stomach out and streaking my beard in unfashionable colours. I'm ready to run, play and climb with my kids, my knees have put in an application for long service leave. I finally have time to do a twelve week weight loss program and my metabolism laughs at me and goes out on strike, demanding an extension of time to twenty weeks and a pay rise of 30 minutes extra running a day to achieve the same productivity goals.

Ours is not a healthy relationship.  Before I agree to love my body, I think I'll get one of those government vouchers for some couples counseling - there are issues.