Right now,
I have the armpits of a Wookie.
Most of the
time, I can avoid the issue, pretend it doesn’t exist, by refusing to look at
the bathroom mirror in those split seconds between peeling off the final inner onion
layer of clothing and diving into a hot, reviving shower.
It’s just
as well.
By the time the end of the winter is in sight (it is, isn’t it?), what lies beneath those layers is not what anyone would call a pretty sight.
It’s not a matter of body image issues – more the inevitable results of insulating yourself against the cold chill outside (and inside too, in these days of pinched budgets and rising heating bills) for months on end.
By the time the end of the winter is in sight (it is, isn’t it?), what lies beneath those layers is not what anyone would call a pretty sight.
It’s not a matter of body image issues – more the inevitable results of insulating yourself against the cold chill outside (and inside too, in these days of pinched budgets and rising heating bills) for months on end.
Throughout the winter, I have continued to function on all fronts, in every way. I walk, I talk, I even brain-storm,
problem-solve and occasionally clean house. But beneath the thermal vest, extra
thick tights, leggings, double-thick socks, slipper boots and thick swampy
sweater, there’s a neglected maggot-like blob just waiting for the kinder
climate to cast off its shackles and flit free on new wings among the weeds
poking through the soil in my equally neglected plant pots.
My body is
in something like an awakened state of hibernation.
Expanses of pale, pasty skin have taken on the colour of feta forgotten at the back of the fridge for three weeks.
Legs are hairier than my hubby (and he’s Greek!) and could probably harvest enough to knit a small scarf once I finally attack them with His Nibs’ razor.
Knees, elbows and back are in such dire need of exfoliation, I reckon only industrial sand-blasting will do the job.
And toenails that your average Horned Eagle Owl would envy.
Expanses of pale, pasty skin have taken on the colour of feta forgotten at the back of the fridge for three weeks.
Legs are hairier than my hubby (and he’s Greek!) and could probably harvest enough to knit a small scarf once I finally attack them with His Nibs’ razor.
Knees, elbows and back are in such dire need of exfoliation, I reckon only industrial sand-blasting will do the job.
And toenails that your average Horned Eagle Owl would envy.
It’s been a
longer than usual, colder than usual winter here in Athens – and it’s not over
yet.
The country
too, is still in the grips of one of its longest metaphorical winters in living
memory. One that has dampened the warm, exuberant spirit of its people, which
has offered few rays of hopeful sunshine for many - despite our enviable
summers.
Greece has
been suffering from the national state version of SAD (Seasonal Affective
Disorder) for five long years now. Wrapping itself up in layers of austerity,
angst, shame, blame and bitterness – with a smidge of xenophobia thrown in for
good measure – the country has bowed its head, buckled down and tried
oh-so-hard to stave off the cold blast of an increasingly unfriendly international
climate.
The nation is ready
for a long-overdue change in the season. People are raising their chins, just a
little, in the hope of spying somewhere on the horizon an end to the big chill
and some sunny prospects ahead.
On a
personal level, I’m ready for the new season. I can’t wait to cast off my
layers and feel the sun and gentle breeze playing on some exposed flesh as I saunter
through streets dotted with new growth in the tree branches and window boxes,
or sip a Sunday morning budget coffee on a pavement café as I read a book, chat
with friends or simply watch the world go by.
I need it. Greece
needs it. We all need it.
Bring on
the spring.
