Romancing Myself
Whitehorse singer Melissa McClelland’s ode to aging.
On the cusp of my teenage years, I found myself making a definitive mental list of things I loved and didn’t love about myself. I was sure I hated my hands—all bony knuckles and skinny wrists. My mother called them otherworldly, but to me they were simply extraterrestrial. I longed to trade in this socalled “character” for plainer, unassuming hands. My nails were ragged and dirty, so I preferred to keep my hands hidden. I’d bring them out to crack my knuckles and then nervously shove them back in my pockets.
Once, around that time, I found an old activity book of mine in our basement. I must have filled it out when I was six, because that’s how old I said I was on the first page. It was overflowing with drawings and questions and answers. Listed in the back among the Q&A: “What is my favourite physical feature about myself and why?” My answer: “My hands!” My stated reason: “I like the way they look.”
I loved my hands at six but hated them at 13. At what age did my feelings change? When did I decide my favourite feature was my least favourite? I made a pact with myself to honour that six-year-old who loved her hands. It’s as though women are formed by subtraction—by taking away things we once loved about ourselves. Now, at middle age, I’m taking back more of what I love about my body.
I love more than my hands now. As I approach 40, I find myself enamoured with my entire body. It can be a source of frustration—and sometimes pain—but also accomplishment. It’s a body that is well used but still indignantly youthful. I’m grateful for both sides of
that coin. Breastfeeding may have stripped away the erotic thrill of baring my breasts, but as my son pulled and sucked and gazed up at me, I somehow felt sexier than ever. I am THE giver of life! It’s a power I hadn’t fully realized.
I’m not saying that it takes being a mom to become a woman, but this experience has erupted in me as some kind of Medusa/Madonna hybrid. I am all powerful but softer than ever. Beyond motherhood, beyond postpartum depression, a redefined autonomy is taking shape. Now, I am sexualizing myself from this new place of ease. A cougar in comfortable shoes, shamelessly enjoying her own reflection. I’m having sex instead of being had by sex. It’s carnal and thrilling, and I’m only half-annoyed that my postpregnancy tits have started to lose their buoyancy when I suddenly feel so at home in my skin. But I remember my adolescent pact: I will love all of myself.
Since the moment I decided to love my hands again, they have been unstoppable. Aching from the girth of the guitar’s neck and its sharp steel strings, they’ve made music. They’ve touched lovers with a gentle power and held my baby with a certainty I didn’t know I had. I’ve felt it as if the force of love itself has exuded straight from the tips of my fingers and palms—like when my dad would put his hand on my forehead when I was sick or when my mom would stroke my cheek and call me by my nickname, Mitzi. I channel this and pay it forward. Sometimes ready for a fight but mostly creating and nurturing, these hands are composed of strength and tenderness.
I don’t have control over time. Or how it will age my body and mind. I’ll try not to hang desperately from the precipice of youth, but I’ll no doubt, from time to time, gaze longingly at it from where I stand. Middle age, middle earth, middle of nowhere—I’m ready to explore these uncharted territories.