Self-care as radical act

I'm going through a re-framing of my high-femme tendencies. As a fat queer woman of color in this society, there really is no way for me to keep politics out of my physical presentation. Decisions about how I wear my hair, what hair I choose to leave and what I choose to remove, how much make-up I choose to wear (and what colors!) and the outfits I pick out----all of these and more bring with them political baggage, consequences, involvement, thought.

So.

So, I mostly embrace the idea of the political being personal and vice versa. Yes, it can be a real bummer, this idea that I can't just decide to wear my hair straight for a few days simply because I like the feel of it across my shoulders. But it is also liberating to see when self-care and gender expression/performance is a way I leave my stamp on my world, and expression of my politics, my art and my heart.

Tonight, while I was in the shower, I was struck how some forms of the self care I perform are actual kind of radical. I was taking extra care and time to exfoliate and moisturize my skin, as it's winter and my skin is prone to dryness and, well, I kind of like just spending a little time with my skin. I have a new body polish (really, it's just a basic sugar scrub) and it's all sweet smelling and yummy. It felt radical and luxurious to spend time polishing the skin over areas my culture likes to call my "trouble spots." I massaged the scrub in and let the warm water wash away the sugar crystals and bubble up on the oils and I thought about how I want to make sure these places---my big, round belly covered in stretch marks, my pendulous breasts, my substantial ass, my solid strong thunder thighs----I wanted to make sure these places, all favorites of my lover and partner, were soft and smooth and smelled good and felt good, tasted good. These are large expanses of skin and I spend a lot of time reveling in or thinking about the pleasure all those nerve endings bring me. I want that skin to feel as good to my own touch as it does to my lovers.

I'm supposed to hate my body. My stretch marks, my bulky and bulgy and jiggly and flabby bits are supposed to disgust me. These are supposed to be places I avoid thinking about, looking at, letting other people see or touch or, gasp!, enjoy. It is so incredibly joyously empowering to scrub that shit off. Seriously.