I’ve always been afraid of going to the lake or the beach. First off, I identify as a male; my privilege protects me from understanding how having "the wrong body type for Abercrombie" or having a natural thigh gap might make a woman feel. Still, I’m always anxious during occasions when others might see me, or worse, when I might have to see myself.
The other day was just such an occasion. Actually, I hadn’t even gone to the lake to go swimming — I was there to write a poem; that’s its own story — but I was struck by how beautiful everyone else was.
One particular group had come ashore from rowing and each one of them a sweaty, stinking mess. They looked so light-skinned and angular, incredibly attractive in a way I felt I am not.
For me, being more than tan is natural, and I’ve never felt I could call myself "cut" by any means. But this is not why they were beautiful to me — attractive, yes, but not beautiful. I’m sure they contend with varying levels of insecurities daily.
Maybe the boys go home and stress over their protein consumption, and maybe the girls go home and find advertisements that create their own insecurities about their shape or size.
I thought they were beautiful because they had bodies and because I saw their bodies alone, not their perceived errors. They could laugh, hold onto one another or run back into the lake. And even if they were physically incapable of these acts, they were still alive. Their bodies were valuable for just this fact.
So where was I in all this? In other words, why could I see others this way but not recognize myself? Well, sometimes I can. But knowing this does not absolve me of insecurity by any means. I would be disingenuous if I insisted anyone could do differently. But I would be cynical if I insisted I, or anybody else, were incapable of trying.
And I’ve always felt cynicism to be despair parading as intelligence.
What I suggest, then, isn’t body positivity, although many of the ideas I express come directly from that. I merely suggest we recognize our bodies as not just a part of ourselves, BUT ourselves.
Not as the seat of our consciousness or the temple of our souls — depending on your religious beliefs — but as our sole means of living.
And the fact of life is that it is an evolutionary accident as much as it is beautiful and temporary.
Our bodies are beautiful for anchoring us to some cosmic, statistical mistake. We should make the most of that mistake. It would be dismal, then, if we spent each day of our lives pinching every apparent fold or bone on our torsos in the mirror, analyze every meal for its calorie count or feel afraid to declare our skin tones as beautiful.
I think I’ll begin to exercise more this semester and probably eat more healthily. I haven’t practiced tennis in a long time, but I think I’ll start again.
I want to make full use of my body — running, swerving, sweating — and extend how long I can.
But I want to do this out of a sense of appreciation, not loathing.
With one life in one body, I have so little time to waste feeling ashamed of it and losing sight of myself.
Neel Bapatla is a UF English sophomore. His column appears on Thursdays.
