Therapists are always saying “listen to your body.” They seem to assume it’s some wise, 90 year old aunt spitting clever insights that both lay bare why you do what you do and hint meaningfully that she has lived through some shit. My body, however, seems more like an orange cat on amphetamines–completely obsessed with wildly random things for wildly unfathomable reasons.
I’m learning that you have to be a bit more selective about which parts of your body you listen to. For example, if you still want to be able to tie your own shoes at the ripe old age of 35 then you should absolutely listen to your back. And your neck. All the joints, really, because none of those bastards will take your crap.
In your 20s you’re young and carefree and you’ll have a three-week old donut from your backpack for breakfast en route to hiking arandom mountain with friends at sunrise with no water and zero warm-ups. But in your 30s you’ll be passing on bowling with those same friends citing “my knee thing” because your joints
are vengeful motherfuckers with very long memories. Shakespeare said Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned but even scorned women hydrate and stretch before they go for a jog if you catch my drift.
Other parts of my body are less trustworthy, though, especially the ones with funny names. Like the armpit. Should I really trust the part of the body I made farting noises with back when I was twelve? Of course not. The duodenum? That thing starts clutching its pearls anytime I dare to eat anything even mildly spicy. And Heaven forbid I have too much dairy all at once. I’ll be bloated and gassy the rest of the night. How am I supposed to take any feelings seriously if they come from an organ that dislikes cheese? And just forget about my stomach. All that thing tells me is that it wants more cookies, thank-you-very-much.
On second thought, I think I need to start listening to my stomach more. It definitely sounds like it has our best interests at heart.
