You Are NOT Your Body

When I was a tiny tot of 4 0r 5 I vividloy recll stding in the kitchen and looking aroun the room and being convinced t6hat I was enclosedd inside an outer thing with 2 eyeholes and I was look out of them there eyehole the world.  I felt  enclosed bu6t totally separate from my outer container.......my phsical  body that is.    Ever since, I have felt  that my body is merely a vehicle  for my essence.....a very ingenious, convenient and useful container for sure,  but definitely not ME.  Okay, this is when you roll your eyes around and twirl you forefinger at your temple....Lo is over the edge.


Not so my deears.......and if you plan to survive old age you damnmed well better grasp the idea I am trying to convey.  Otherwise, as your body falls apart first this hhunk, then that one, you will have a lot of trouble maint6ianing you sense of self worth.  The good old bod is like a good old beat up car that is still doing its best to get you around and from here to there, sometimes in laughable fashion and sometimes unsucessfully,  but5 you are still there in the driver's seat, more or less intact but having to accept and adjust to the loss of functions.

For years I have been having to tamp down thr rage and disgust that overshelms me when I read a blog on which the writer goes to piieces over a wrinkle or a sagging boob. as if the world were coming to an end over the loss of a crumb of outward apperance.  I simply want to screm,
 Never mind about the outside shell you idiot, clean up the wretched mess of your real self inside!!"

The old saw abou6t the body being the temple of the spirit never reallly resonated for me until I recognized that thet were really telling m,e what I had alread figuered out in my mundane way,

I guess I am writing about this becase I see myself dragging this poor decripit carcass around.....and very cumbersone and inconvenient it is, by the way, b ut this dear old bod has served me well for over 80 years and I am revering it more and more as it becomes less and lesswhat it was.  Never mind that the eyes can't find my glasses, that the ears cause me to beg,"Say again, please"and that I wisely reach for my cane and the railing  when I attempt a flight of stairs.  Hell, I consider that it  is amazing that i still doing stairs  any which way.

Do not think that I am accepting all this decreitude quite as  gracefully as I have made it seem.......the number of shitpissfucks thqt issue forth from my no longer plump and luscious lips increases daily, and we will not try to count the number of times I scream, "Oh, for crisssake, Lo, look what you've done, or haven't done". 
But I am finding it easier to be kinder about it all.   As long as the inner pilot light continues to burn  blue I will cherish the remarkable structure that I dwell in.

And the best thing of all about not identifying with the outer covering is that I can go without a bra, boobs for all to notice and not give a damn.  Oy, does that feel good!
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