James Franco and me…

My bookclub girls were giddy when James Franco was in town shooting a movie– so I thought I’d write them a story about my experience with him: 

“Everyone is asking me about my James Franco sighting. Well- I’m not supposed to mention anything. But I have really good privacy settings on this account, so it will be just between us. So, I was just riding by on my bike in the Ward when I saw the crowd. I’m a bit above the celebrity thing, feeling a bit of a celebrity myself at the YMCA, but I stopped to see what the hubbub was all about. Only for a second, I said to myself. I had a lot of spaghetti for dinner and needed the ride.
That is when he spotted me. WP_000850

At first I totally thought I was imagining it. Was he looking at me? I was behind the teen girls in their tube tops, in August’s ninja turtle bike helmet. It may have just been for a few seconds, but, by God, if felt like at least 10 to maybe 12 seconds. I was sure it didn’t mean much. Not to him. But to me? Me, I felt something. Stirring. Down there. Middle-aged me. I felt ashamed (Mom- who is my Facebook friend).
I turned away and quickly mounted my bike. Well, that’s when I felt what I can only call “a hand” on my shoulder. It was James Franco’s hand-ler.
James has seen me. Handler makes his way through the crowd. James has seen me. Handler makes his way through the crowd.[/caption]

He said to me–and he said it loudly so the whole desperate pathetic crowd could hear–“You are the one. He chooses you. Milady.”
I took this very seriously. It felt like a command I could not refuse. Something long coming.
I said “I have to lock up my bike. It isn’t a good neighbourhood.” He shook his head and threw back his hair. “James will buy you all the bikes you could ever want. He could buy you a golden bike with antler handlebars if you said the word.” And I believed him. He guided me past the barricade towards Jamie’s trailer. I can’t tell you anymore. I promised Jamie.
All I can say is one word. One quiet word, and I’ll be as discreet as I can.

Dear Body (inspired by a poster on How To Get A Bikini Body and a video by Frazey Ford)

(Had to write this fast and post immediately, for, otherwise, it would never have been written…)

Dear Body,

You’ve always been so good to me. I see that now.

You gave me legs that ran fast in grade school track, and hips that could ride a horse, wrists that flicked basketballs into nets, bare feet that climbed the tallest trees in our neighbourhood.

It’s you who I should be thanking for following my obsessively choreographed dance moves I saw reflected back to me in my parent’s bay window.
But me and the window reflection were the only audience members. You see, while you did mostly what I asked, you didn’t listen to me for the things I told you were the most important.

I asked you to be skinnier, taller, and more beautiful. I mean, you weren’t terrible, but you certainly weren’t good enough. You embarrassed me. So I had to punish you with shame, starve you, pluck your hairs out, and keep you in on Friday nights. Even wish you away. You were ruining my life.

I remember hours studying Seventeen Magazine, memorizing every detail on how to make your eyes bigger, your hair straighter, your thighs smaller, your legs longer, your boobs bigger. Why didn’t you get it?

My dad, a world explorer, a lover of ideas and culture and history, would look at me and wonder, why all this time spent on that? He’d hold up The National Geographic and say “Look, pyramids!” He didn’t get it either. What did he know?

And remember when tans were in? I sunburned you so badly that you blistered. And you still wouldn’t hold the colour for long.
You didn’t look good in the clothes I liked either, so I had to wear other clothes, big things that covered you up or things with stripes that made you look smaller than you were. A little smoke and mirrors to distract others from seeing the real you.
Don’t blame me, I had to hide you. I was ashamed of you.

It took me to middle age to realize all the harm I put you through. All in the name of some idea of a single perfect body. Somebody else’s body— who probably doesn’t like her body either.

Today, when I saw that funny little poster on “How To Get a Bikini Body,” you called me out. Yes, I got the message. You are already the body for me. I hadn’t noticed that. Oh, how could I have done this to you for so long? I have so much sadness for you. And for me. And for all that lost time, that hurt, that hatred. So much waste.

bikini body

I’m so sorry I was embarrassed of you, body. I’m sorry I pushed you away. I hope it is not too late for forgiveness. For some reconciliation? I hope you’ll still have me. You really are good just how you are. I love you.

(Just don’t dare go and age on me now. I’ll try to be gentle with you if you do.)

Here is a gift to us. (I wish this video was around when I was a teen. But I’m grateful for having it now.) So beautiful and free– featuring Frazey Ford joined by many women living well in their bodies: Frazey Ford DONE