My Imaginary Thirty-Six Self

By Rashael Crystal

I spent my thirty-sixth birthday in my birthday suit.

It wasn’t planned this way. I dutifully packed two black swimming suits in a floral patterned backpack and set out to soak my aging bones in California’s Orr Hot Springs. The signs read “clothing optional” and I imagined one or two old birds walking around bare with paper-thin skin, proud beaks, and time-earned attitudes of “I don’t give a fuckery.” Or, I thought perhaps there would be two or three young sprites who drove up from the city to strip down, flit about in mountain spring waters, and collect selfies for their instagram stories. What I didn’t expect was that clothing optional should have read: “clothing, not really a thing here.”

Barefooted bodies with slacken faces bend over to scrub old cast iron clawfoot tubs, while others in flip flops (towels draped across their shoulders like accessories) walk to their bath of preferred water temperature.

There is only a single body in a bathing suit, her face pinched into a frown of apprehension and prudence. I stand frozen in my maxi skirt with a shirt boldly proclaiming “more love” in the midst of a crisis of conscience.

You see, I was raised with religion. Meaning, I was taught at a very young age that god hated nakedness. Perhaps more specifically, that Eve–a woman–had used her feminine powers of suggestion to manipulate her male counterpart into sin, wickedness, and god’s hatred of the naked body.

It smacks of shame. This laid a solid foundation of concrete body-image insecurities. Then, a lifetime of being fifteen to forty pounds overweight built a fortress. I’m not really comfortable being naked alone, let alone with ten to twenty strangers roaming about.

In a moment of courage, I decide that the thirty-six year old self of my imagination is a woman of confidence and freedom (and nothing like the pinch-faced woman with her brows holding onto tension that 106 degree mineral waters couldn’t loosen). Right then and there, I resolved to shed a layer of shame.

I pull and twist off my clothes beneath a grey and white striped turkish bath towel (a skill I proudly learned as an early teen to avoid being seen naked in front of the cool girls in gym class). I stand terrified, coiled inside the safety of my towel and watching as the clawfoot tub takes an eternity to fill with steaming blue water. The distinct aroma of boiled eggs and mustard fill the air.

Out of the corners of my eyes (being careful not to be caught staring) I watch the shapes of people walk by–unadorned, unabashed, and unapologetic. Lanky bodies with thick dreads down to their knees. Curvy caramel bodies with stretch marks on their rears and gold chains around their waists (reminiscent of a rap music video). Grey dimpled bodies sagging under the weight of age and gravity. Round, swaying fleshy bodies. Shaved bodies. Savage bodies.

I’ve been wearing this particular body for forty minus four years. This body has never had abs (despite thousands of crunches and decades of prayer). Delightfully, this body has seduced a few men, but heartbreakingly, has convinced far fewer to stay. This body hasn’t born children, but still bears red and white stretch marks, a full belly, and thighs that refuse to be away from the other. This body has climbed the Himalayas, the High Tatras, the Dolomites and crossed the grand canyon, and yet, it continues to lose the battle against refined sugar and simple carbohydrates. This body has been a singular blessing while simultaneously my greatest nemesis. A ticking time bomb, this body. A daily reminder of my limitations, lost potential, and many missteps.

I step into the filling tub, the warm water lapping my calves and threatening to soak the edge of my towel. With a deep breath I imagine the carefree, bold woman I want to be. Then I toss my towel across the wooden deck and sink into the milky mineral water. I recline bare breasted to a blue afternoon sky, stretch my unshaven legs long and poke my toes just out of reach from the hot water. And with a nervous shrug, I say to myself, “Well, it’s a start.”