TRANSCRIPT

I’m Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown.

I had a checkup with my doctor recently — just an annual exam, nothing special — but of course she asked me about any changes since she’d last seen me. How was my sleep? My energy? Was I still having multiple migraine days each month? Was my current medication working well, or was I experiencing side effects?

I joked with her about my “meat suit,” gesturing to my body, and we laughed about the unfortunate parts of middle age.

The truth is, all bodies are imperfect. They’re living documents, in a way, that tell the story of our lives. This body of mine gets chronic migraines. This body is wrapped in sensitive skin that freckles and burns in the sun instead of tanning. This body is heavier than it was a year ago. This body is in perimenopause, which means it’s sort of “powering down” after my childbearing years. This body is mysterious to me in many ways, even though I’ve “known” it all my life.

But also, I think about what this body has made possible in my life. This body brought two children into the world who are their own people and will have their own lives completely separate from mine. This body has allowed me to travel around the country and around the world, to see beautiful views, to hear music that moves me, to smell and taste delicious foods. This body has allowed me to love and be loved, and to be physically close to people who are dear to me. This body dances, runs, swims, roller skates. It hugs and kisses and cuddles. It cooks and eats, writes and reads, listens and talks. This body is a miracle for what it’s allowed me to experience in this lifetime.

So-called experts may try to say it could be improved upon, fixed, tweaked or adjusted in some way to be just a little bit “better,” as if one could renovate a body the way they do an old home in need of updated flooring. But today’s poem reminds me, importantly, that this body is the only one I have. There’s no “spare,” no back up, no alternative. When I think of it that way, it’s impossible not to be grateful.

Heading Out to Sea
by José A. Alcántara

Every boat carries another boat
in case the first boat sinks.

Imagine if you could do that for yourself.
Imagine the second body

deflated, folded up, tucked away
in your back pocket

ready to be whipped out
when the first body fails. 

It would have to be smaller
made of cheaper materials

but also lighter, more willing 
to go with the flow.

This is it. The final body.
The one you accept just as it is

never worrying about how it looks
compared to other bodies

the one you cling to with everything you have
in love with its rubbery flesh

its tendency to bounce off obstacles 
its precious fetid breath.

"Heading Out to Sea" by José A. Alcántara. Originally published in Alaska Quarterly Review. Used by permission of the poet.