I hate when spring rolls around every year and I have to start wearing clothes that don’t cover up all of my wobbly bits. There’s such comfort wrapped up in my scarves and sweaters and cups of hot tea. There’s a safety in the barrier they create; a warmth.
There’s protection there, too. In my winter state, things are expected to remain the same, frozen in time, hibernating. Underneath the snow and ice and thick sweaters, all that could be lies dormant, hidden away from scrutiny and observation. No bikini ready body or bud is expected to emerge, yet.
And in some ways, I think this is grace. That a period of silence falls upon us every so often, that the diets and charades die and this particular lifelessness, or the feeling of it, can be hidden, for a while.
I might be emerging from another winter, just about to thaw out and trudge through the miry field of early spring where nothing is solid. I’m not convinced it won’t snow again and cover up all of my attempts at blooming, but I suppose the dawning of spring isn't something I can have arrive at my will.
My feet keep getting caught in the mud, where the thawing meets what was. My shoes from last season don’t fit anymore, they seem to be falling off of my feet and when I trip, looking around for a hand to help me up, the one I’m looking for isn't there. He isn't, entirely, there. Nothing is as it was.
And this place, this time, it is foreign. I long for the safety of the season before. The people, the words, the language – there is no harmony between this and what I know. What I thought I knew.
Nothing fits anymore.
From jeans to routine to truth, everything just feels a bit…off, not quite right. Yet, I am weary of willing away the need of spring, the necessity of re-birth. Perhaps in the melting away, I’ll find a new safety, a new normal. Or maybe, I’ll just find peace with my wobbly bits, sans the cover up.