My Readjustment of Sexy in a Changing Body
By: Marie Lynne
Tags: Relationships, Gender, Love, Beauty, Sexuality

After my late husband and I would make love, we would lie in each other’s arms. He would run his hand over the side of my hip, where the pelvic bone flares out. “This is my favorite part,” he’d say.

I would touch the same spot to see what captured his attention. It felt soft to me. I couldn’t see its appeal.

“Why do you like it?” I’d ask.

He’d close his eyes, purse his mouth, and inhale. “Ooww…” Then he’d bite his lower lip as if straining with effort and thrust his hips back and forward suggestively. “It’s where I grip and hold you when I take you!”

For a few seconds, he’d lose himself in those memories. He’d then open his eyes again and smile as he ran his hand back over the same spot.

My husband never minded my weight.

Over the years, life and stress slowly packed on the pounds for both of us. There were pregnancies and raising children; we managed our careers and ran a small joint business. I worked not to gain more, but found it difficult to diet while raising three active sons.

My husband and I were big believers in working out. He loved the way the aerobic machines gave my ass a nice curve. It wasn’t flat like other women my age.

But I’ve never been skinny. Not since I was ten.

What do men find sexy? What do I?

If I pay attention to some crasser comments on social media feeds, overweight women get a lot of shit. They’re called “fat cows” and “a waste of resources.”When I was much thinner, a car full of young adult males pulled over and yelled out their window I was an “ugly pig.” Two different dates met me for the first time and behaved rudely because of their disappointment that I wasn’t thinner.

The vocal haters are unforgiving in their objectification of women’s bodies.

Which brings me back to my original question, What’s beautiful and sexy? Is it a particular look?

Before my husband learned he had cancer, we made love for one of the last times. He went down on me. I was lost in the sensations as he stroked me with his tongue. Then he paused and looked up.

Wondering why he stopped, I leaned forward. Our eyes locked.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he whispered.

I shook my head, no.

“You are so lovely to me.” He smiled before he buried his head back between my knees.

But I’m just an ordinary, middle-aged woman — someone with too much weight around my waist and hips. My arms are soft; my large breasts spill out of my bra.

There’s a movement of body positivity. Women in all sizes and shapes post photos of themselves. In only their undergarments, they pose against stunning backdrops. Their bodies dimple and curve generously. Ambient lighting makes their creamy brown, tan, and ivory skin glow like rich satin.

What if the definition of beauty truly belongs to the one who gazes? That it lies within the eye of the beholder. My date texted that he finds me “sexy and elegant with beautiful curves.” My late husband would agree.

I am also a beholder who gazes upon me. Do I see a capable body that has worked long hours during those years of farming? Do I acknowledge its sacrifice in carrying three pregnancies and tending a dying spouse?

These days when I slather on the moisturizer, I notice myself — the blemishes, hairs, and texture of my skin. I take my time to caress my limbs with tender care.

This is me, I tell myself, and I am beautiful.