Letting Yourself Go

"Much of your pain is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self." ~Khalil Gibran~

“Much of your pain is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.”
~Khalil Gibran~

Sometimes just letting things go is therapeutic. Some call that kind of letting go ‘surrender’.

That’s not the kind of ‘letting go’ I’m talking about though.

No darlings. I’m talking about letting yourself go, as in go to hell. Not in a ‘handbasket’, for doing something devilishly delightful and hedonistic, but letting your beauty go the way of polyester leisure suits and leg warmers.

Two days ago,  at what I hope to be the beginning of the end of a bout of some weird viral infection/allergic reaction combo, I worked up enough nerve to give myself a little kick in my ample ass.

Since I’ve become way more selective about the company I keep…in the nude, I’ve kinda let my body go the way of the dull housewife.

My previous philosophy of keep it in shape in case the opportunity arises (and it did many, many times), eroded into; if you’re worth gentlemen, it I’ll wax it. Which, of course does not radiate the sexy aura of the wanton-duchess-of- sex that I’m going for.

Not being able to see my own bikini line over my boobs also makes it easy to let things go a bit. Don’t get me wrong, I still go to see my aesthetician, just not as frequently. This is the same one who offered to wax my nostrils (I’m not kidding).

In retrospect, I believe that’s what set off my denial of all things carnally delightful. Stretched out with only my sweater, undies and socks on the waxing bed, I had visions of how I looked with my pale thighs exposed under the harsh waxing light, and racing  thoughts of the much-younger date I was scheduled to entertain that evening, crawling on top of my  fleshy mound of deliciousness, looking up my nostril and losing his erection because I had some abnormal nostril hair happening.

I took her up on the nostril waxing (doesn’t hurt like you think it would, and she did if for free), and then stood the poor kid up, leaving him high and dry with no good lovin’s from yours truly. I stayed in and drowned my old, naked, hairless-nostirled self in wine.

The next day after I read his rather harsh email, I knew I deserved it. It’s just poor form to stand someone up because of your own insecurity.

That was the beginning of letting myself go.

It’s no reason to despair or send your recommendations of good self-esteem programs though sweeties. I did eventually end up  having a lovely date with the young gentleman.

At this age and stage, I’ve had the good fortune of good company from a good number of good men. Men of my vintage however are all married with children, or just beginning divorce proceedings, a nastiness that I will never expose myself to. In other words, I have a grand selection of much older, and much younger men.

That’s not a terrible predicament. It’s just that much older men all seem to need some assistance with their less enthusiastic erections, and the much younger men all hump like bi-polar jack-rabbits in a manic state (In all fairness, much older men know how to go about romance and much younger men are eager to please and entertaining).

Needless to say, it’s a rare shag that inspires the effort for properly scaped pubic hair and firm thighs.

But two days ago, I had a good hard conversation with myself. I knew it was going to be tough, so I sat myself down in a candlelit bubble bath with a little Marc Cohen playing, a platter of chocolate dipped strawberries and a glass a bottle of champagne.

Mid-winter depression and lack of joy in daily activities makes for the perfect storm of self-doubt and negative self-talk. It was time for me to have a firm but gentle, loving chat with my worn out self.

I have finally let myself go enough to upset myself, to want to repair the damage done, and to want to like crawling into bed with my own body at the end of the day.

That’s what matters after all, isn’t it ladies? How we feel about ourselves makes our days good ones or bad ones.

Any woman can find a man eager to have his deliciously perfect man- bits cuddled, but it’s a rare woman who loves herself enough to dig out of mid-winter depression in order to nurture her own self.

Go ahead, wax it, pluck it, trim it and firm it up ladies….if you build it, they will come.

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