My body and I are fickle frenemies; we always have been, as most women will understand.
But this year in particular, I’ve really been on the outs with her.
I’ve written previously on this platform about being plagued with health issues for several months – an experience which I’m privileged to say is new for me.
I’ve spent much of this year feeling like my body is turning on me, and resenting her for it. It’s caused a rift where there used to be a lot of love.
And then there’s my vanity. I used to joke all the time that I had to be ‘the best dressed person in any given Tesco’ due to my flamboyant sense of style.
But lately, I haven’t been the best dressed person in Tesco by any stretch of the imagination. Because my clothes don’t fit.
Thanks to a combination of the aforementioned health stuff, my gym closing down, and a shuffling of priorities post-Covid, I’ve gained some weight recently. I’m up two dress sizes.
It’s the biggest I’ve been, and although I’m not experiencing any fatphobia or abuse, I’m extremely aware that my body is different to how it used to be. I would be lying if I said it didn’t bother me.
But I hadn’t realised exactly how much it bothered me until I started packing for my first proper holiday since 2019.
Body image obsession is nothing new
Back then I was 24 and all muscle, and still didn’t like the way my shorts cut into my thighs when I sat down.
Now those shorts don’t have a hope in hell. So I bought a bigger size, reluctantly. And I wore them, reluctantly, on the third day of my scorching, sun-drenched island adventure.
I had spent the previous two days driving through the mist and endless evergreens of the Trossachs, waving goodbye to the mainland as a chugging ferry sprayed salty water into my hair, whooping into baking, empty valleys on Mull.
Finally I landed on Iona, where I soaked up blazing beach bonfires and soul-stirring sunsets.
I had never driven so far, and on my own no less. I’d never seen so much of the beautiful country that I live in and that, to be honest, I take for granted.
Yet still, stretched out on a prehistoric slab of sun-warmed rock in the same bay where St Columba allegedly washed up, with the might of the sea in front of me, a rainbow of pebbles under my feet and the lush hills of Iona behind me, all I could think was:
I want to take a picture but I won’t like how I look.
At that moment, I knew I had to have a word with myself.
Iona destined to bring big life lessons
How could I sit there basking in the expansive, craggy, soft beauty of this island and then shame my own body for being those things?
More importantly, how could I be so needlessly absorbed in my stupid body image that I almost missed the peace, tranquillity and serenity that was being served up for the taking?
There followed a moment – quite possibly the first shimmer of sunstroke – where I swear I could see myself, 60 years from now, sitting on the rock across from me.
She was wrinkled and grey and a little chubby, with weak ankles and labouring breath from carrying my asthmatic lungs for so long. And she was fuming.
Because she knew how lucky I was to have a body which could take me somewhere so magical. How eventually I’d be one of the little old ladies I so easily outpace on the street, and I wouldn’t have even noticed it happening.
And I had the audacity to worry about a little bit of belly? A few crows feet? A stretch mark? Wise up, Rebecca.
Iona is known for its spirituality, and many pilgrims come away feeling they’ve learned a big lesson. I think they’re usually about God, or nature, or the universe.
But I learned about my body; I learned to appreciate its ever-changing scenery.
I learned that beauty is not the same as being the best-dressed in Tesco.
Art Night will be boon for Dundee
When I first heard about London-based contemporary art festival Art Night coming to Dundee, I admit I was sceptical.
I often find what’s labelled as ‘contemporary’ art to be a bit navel-gazey. Which is rich, coming from someone who literally contemplated her own softening midriff above.
But I’m heartened to learn that Art Night isn’t just riding the high of Dundee’s newfound ‘must see’ status to further the agenda of trendy, loft-conversion Londoners.
Instead, it’s celebrating artists who are here, and have been here a while.
From DJCAD-based commissions to Dundee Women’s Aid collaborations, the V&A to the Hilltown and Stobswell, the festival is well and truly getting to the core of Dundee’s art scene.
And the city must be doing something right, since this is the first iteration of the festival to happen outside of London.
In fact, maybe Dundee can benefit from a bit of navel-gazing.
