I Want a Refund

My body and I are not always on speaking terms. I don’t know why I bother to argue, though, because my body always wins. If I do something to displease my body, I very quickly regret it. If my body does something to upset me, like a belch in a public place, not only do I have no recourse but I am even responsible for it.

I think of my body as a stern, judgmental parent to whom I bring my report card: Three A’s and three B’s. I’m thrilled but my body is not. It wants to know why I didn’t get all A’s. Bodies are like that.

A few years ago (well, that’s a euphemism for quite a while in the past), I decided to get in shape and do well by my body. I watched what I ate and took up an exercise program. This was all for my body, mind you. Well, I was jogging along, quietly minding my business, when I tripped over a sidewalk and stress-fractured my knee. Lo these many years later my body has decided to get back at me by developing arthritis where the fracture was. I get no credit for the reason I was exercising. I get treated exactly the same as Evel Knievel, apparently a fellow abuser as far as my body is concerned.

Then there are the fun little things my body has decided to do to me quite on its own initiative. The daily thyroid pills are a nice little reminder that my body resents aging. The lipitor is another gift. I can cut out all fat and meat and still have to take it. My doctor says it’s genetics. I say it’s the body doing what it wants to without any regard for my feelings. I didn’t want to learn about triglycerides or HDL and I certainly didn’t want to have regular blood tests.

If my body had any regard for me at all, it would not have wrinkled or sagged or allowed my hair to go grey. Just to remind me of the power it has over me, it has even stopped growing hair in various places. I can’t bear to look at turkeys these days, they remind me of what’s under the turtle neck sweaters I favor.

The strange thing is that I still feel as I did when I was twenty—well, maybe thirty. My mind is clear and I still think I can accomplish many things more. My body is not willing to go along with me. People look at me and draw instant conclusions about what I am capable of based on what my body looks like. I may look like I am nearing the top of the hill and about to go over, but that’s just my body. I want to yell out that I’m still alive. Still with it. Maybe I’m not going down a ski jump at the Olympics—but I wouldn’t have done that when I was twenty. I can just imagine what my body would say if I had.

One of my cynical friends once told me there are no guarantees in life and that you can’t go back for a refund. Mentally and spiritually I guess I can accept that. But when it comes to my body, I want to tell someone that there must have been a mistake. This physical being with its heart burn and arthritic knees and lumps on its fingers is not me. It can’t be. I want a refund. Trouble is—I have no idea where to make a complaint and I can hear my body laughing.