When The Time Is Right

It doesn’t bother me that I don’t know how to ski or snowboard. I’m much happier drinking hot chocolate and reading a book by a fire, but the fact that I had never strapped on a pair of ice skates was a disappointment. So when I saw an advertisement for ice skating lessons, in my effort to add more fun into my life, I signed up. I knew it wouldn’t be easy as I pictured the muscle aches of a good workout and an embarrassingly ungraceful first few sessions of sliding around the ice, but I was excited.
What I didn’t picture, and didn’t allow myself to think about, was the possibility that even though my mind wanted to, my body wasn’t up for it. As soon as I hit the ice my body tensed up and started jerking around. I attempted to relax, to bend my knees and get a sense of balance but I could barely remain standing. I tried talking my body into confidence by reminding it that I used to dance for years and have an innate sense of movement and balance. My body didn’t listen to my pep talk and refused to unlock. I pushed forward, determined not to give up. Yet I was unable to let go of the side or of the instructor without falling, and when I came off the ice my vision blurred with the start of a migraine that kept me awake for the rest of the night.
I was furious the next morning. My body had failed me when all I was trying to do was have a little fun, and as is the case whenever a migraine hits, I was nauseous for the rest of the week. Every time I got queasy I became more frustrated and more intent on conquering my body and learning to ice skate.
On the day of the next class, though, I felt good. I was, while not exactly confident, more prepared for the class ahead. Unfortunately, I never made it. One silly misstep at work, a stumble that throws you off balance but not onto the floor, and I pulled my ankle. I felt more embarrassment than pain as I did that move where you look back at the rug accusatorily, as if it had somehow jumped up and tripped me. I thought nothing of my ankle; the quick shot of pain disappeared as I walked back to my desk. After an hour of sitting, the next time I stood I could barely limp to the water cooler. The pain grew worse the longer I walked and by the time I made it home that night I could barely stand, leastwise skate.
Even now, nearly a week later, I’m still limping a bit – which is actually a good thing. It’s only as I limped around cursing my bad luck that I realized that maybe it wasn’t bad luck at all, but a warning. I would be in a cast now if I had pulled the graceful move I had at work on the ice. As my doctor tried to tell me, someone who hasn’t had adequate nutrition for the last decade shouldn’t be putting her weakened bones at risk of a serious fall. At the time she was referring to extreme sports – which, now that you know I can’t even ice skate, I’m sure you realize doesn’t exactly apply. But, in this case, I’m sure ice skating counts.
It’s not an easy thing to accept. After a year of all the restrictions that having Celiac Disease entails, the last thing I want is to be even more restrained. It beats the confinement of a cast though, and as I drink my calcium enriched hot chocolate and read Emma Donoghue’s excellent Room instead of strapping on skates, I’m reminded that everything is a process and I’ll break out eventually. Maybe I’ll even glide out, when the time is right.

Suggested Reading: What's Up Down There

I assumed Lissa Rankin’s new book, What’s Up Down There, would be exactly what it said on the cover: Questions You’d Only Ask Your Gynecologist If She Was Your Best Friend. I was not disappointed, as her expert information was told in a kind, un-clinical and often humorous manner. What surprised me though was that it exceeded my expectations.
On one hand, you have myths being dispelled, what many would feel as embarrassing situations explained, and guidance given about caring for the female body. The book is an easy to read owner’s manual, if you will, for women everywhere. On the other hand, you have the brutal truth that there is little common knowledge about the female body out there. Rankin recounts countless women who came to her in utter confusion of what was going on ‘down there.’ Filled with shame at feeling like a freak, they wanted to just ignore that part of themselves and be removed from their body. In fact, most women are not only in total ignorance of their own body but they choose to be. Believing themselves to be abnormal in their uncertainty and anguish, they are too embarrassed to seek the truth.
It’s sad that while we learn, perhaps more than we wanted to know, about a man’s penis and its many letdowns while watching commercials during a football game, the word vagina itself is taboo. It’s even worse as a topic of discussion; it’s only for whispers amongst girlfriends late at night. Even with your doctor, most things go unsaid.
This approach to oneself creates a disconnect that may make things easier at the time, but can cause massive problems down the road. Knowledge is power, we’ve all heard the statement before, and nowhere is it more true than when it comes to your own body, your own physical and mental health. As Rankin says, “Opening to the truths of your body will lead the way for the rest of your personal growth.”
Rankin’s book is a full-on fight to get that truth out there, to get self acceptance out there. That no matter how different things may seem, there is no rule that says, this is how it should be and you’re wrong for being this way.
What I loved most about the book, while I appreciated its knowledge and its fight, was its underlying message. The message of loving and nurturing yourself was what really touched me. While Rankin answered countless questions, she also championed the concept that you must own your body. Whatever flaws you see and whatever strengths you’ve chosen to ignore must be appreciated and loved. While Rankin’s way with a story kept me laughing more than I thought I would, and I learned some things I would never even have thought to ask, it was her message of empowerment that kept me turning the pages.