Over the past 30 years, I've put my body to the test. When I was just 6, I used to climb into trees with my brothers, pulling myself up branches with nothing but sheer will. At 8 years of age, I learned to water ski, and subjected my body to all sorts of contortionist positions as I fell at speeds of 15 miles per hour. At 15, I learned how to ride a motorcycle and crash landed into burms and mud puddles more often than I care to admit. When I was 20 I traveled to New Zealand and completed the holy trinity of bungee jumps, including the Nevis Highwire Bungee, over a canyon deeper than it was wide. And it was wide. At 21 I flew over the handlebards of my mountain bike on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. When I was 24 I trained to be a whitewater raft guide, flipping and dunking, swimming and grunting all the way through seven weeks of training and torture. I stood at the mirror yesterday and took a look at my body. It is a strong body. It's carried me over states, bodies of water, and even continents. It's done everything I've ever asked of it, even changed shape a time or two. (Damn you, Freshman 15.) So forgive me if I can't understand why, at 30 years old, my body has suddenly refused to do what I ask of it. I'm not asking for feats of strength beyond average. I'm not asking it to look differently than my genetics dictate. (Thought at 16, I really did want it to look a little bustier.) I'm just asking it to do what women everywhere seem to have no problem doing naturally.
Maybe I asked to much of it in my youth. Maybe, but it was sure fun.
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