Vat die lang pad

Vandag het ek halfhartig probeer oefening doen want die vrouens in die tydskrifte so veel beter verskyn en ek tog voel ek moet ook so lyk. Binne in my weet ek, natuurlik, photoshop kan almal in perfeksie verander, en dat die wêreld lelik en eg en stinkerig en vuil en vol ongelykhede is, maar daai prente op die posters laat my streef na 'n ideaal waarteen ek opstelle skryf en waarteen my openbare feminis stry en baklei. Ek weet ek is nie 'n prent nie, maar ek, soos julle almal, wil ook party dae nie wees waarin ek gevange is nie.

Toe sit ek by die masjiene, waarteen ek in elke geval gekant is, en stoot maar die pennetjie van 80kg wat die bodybuilder ou voor my met links gestoot het op na 5kg  en doen maar die repetiesies war vir my sal laat lyk soos 'n foto. Maar tussenin kom staan Joseph, wat daar werk en oor die laaste paar maande my vriend geword het, by my en wil gesels. En ek luister. Die helfte van die tyd weet ek nie wat hy sê nie omdat hy nie vir my kyk terwyl hy praat nie, en dan moet ek nader aan hom gaan staan en my oor soos 'n ou vrou in sy rigting draai.

Ook vra hy my altyd hoekom ek nie meer oefen nie, wat ek weeg en hoe ek beplan om van my gewig ontslae te raak, so dit is 'n ietwat onaangename oomblik vir my as ek hom sien. Van my gewig onslae te raak klink vir my as of ek van my hele lyf ontslae met raak. As of ek myslef in stukke behoort te sny en te se, hier, in die vullis.  Vat my vleis en vet en vel. Maar eintlik dink ek my lyf is wonderlik, in die waarste sin van die woord: ek verstom my oor hoe alles kan beweeg en kan seer raak en kan voel.  

Toe vra Joseph my wat ek met my lewe aanvang en wat my plan is. Ek sê vir hom, ek lewe vir my, nou. Ek lewe om iets te belewe. Dit is nou die tyd om te droom en wêrelde te sien. Dit is nou die tyd om nie spyt te wees oor wat my lewe beinhou het nie.

Hy sê toe vir my: Ja. Dit is 'n blink plan. Jy moet die lang pad vat. Moet nie die kort pad vat nie, want hy kan jou teleurstel en dan sit jy in die middel van nêrens sonder 'n pad wat voorlê.

Ek wou net sê, ek stem. Ek sal die lang pad vat, ook as ek nie juis weet waar hy is nie. Dalk Kaap of Korea toe? Haha. Nou daar is die eerste droom.

As bonus nog 'n Koos Kombuis gedig:

POLITIEKE ISOLASIE
(ná die break-up)

Daar is sex shops in Amsterdam
Daar's reisies op Killarney
Daar is oorloe in Afganistan
Ek weet nie hoekom jy my pla nie

Hoekom worry ek oor jou
War Games is belangriker
Die wêreld kan vergaan, dan sou
ons ons nie eerns meer kan herinner
Aan die tye wat verby is nie!

Sal die wêreld ophou draai
Net oor een simpele koebaai?
Sal Seepunt oopgestel word vir Kubane
Sal die prys van brood weer styg
Sal kanker genees kan word met marijuana
of niemand meer oor die World Cup juig?

Die wêreld is tog groter
As net ek en jy se liggame
Jou oe, so blou soos gister
Is twee klein, nietige atome
Wat niks aan als verander nie.

Jou hande is net vleis en been
Jou lyf is bruin, jou hemp is blou
Jy's maar net, onder miljoene, één -
Nou hoekom breek ek my hart oor jou?

Ek gee nie om waar Boy George is nie,
En Brook Shields kan rodreis waar sy wil
P.W. Botha is seker op vakansie
So wat is met jóú die groot verskil?

DIes net dat ek wil weet, hóé jy sonder
My die lewe voel, of jy my mis,
Ensovoorts, ensovoorts. Al die gwone:
In die hele wye wêreld
Was jý mý klein bêreplek van drome.


uit Die Geel Kafee

Changes

At the gym they changed the changing rooms. The women are in the men's quarters and the men get to enjoy separate showers for a day. I don't know why they do this, but it happens about twice a year. Perhaps it is to shake things up a little. Too see how many people will walk into the wrong change-room out of habit.

So after pretending to work out and sculpt my muscles, I head back to the changing rooms. In the ladies' one, the main room is separated into segments by placing the lockers in an E shape. So if you want to, no one can see you go from sweaty to sexy. Also, there are individual showers with swing doors, so even there you are only visible as a shadow through the opaque plastic-glass. 

The men's changing rooms are vastly different : the man room is the same size as the women's room, but the lockers are all pressed to the walls, and the benches are in the middle of the room, so there is nowhere to hide. Further, the showers are basically one room with ten shower heads. It is like prison. Or my idea of showers in prison. 

So sneaked in and saw a handful of elderly ladies lounging around on the benches, showing off sagging flesh and humanity at its barest. Because I was clothes and wore a bra, I felt very superior. I discarded my clothes quietly in the farthest corner whilst draping my enormous towel around me and managed to constantly hide the middle square of my body from their view. I did this to not make them jealous, you know, I did not want them to feel bad for not looking as smoking hot as me. No, in truth, I just don't like being naked. Especially not in front of people. 

The African ladies seem to have no problem with this: they will parade around their shape, spending ages lathering on different creams and wrapping their bodies in cellophane. Then they will again spend hours sweating naked in the sauna or the steam room, sitting on the tiniest towels. 

I admire this pride : to be comfortable in one's body, to be able to walk around in the nude, unaffraid of judgement. Maybe that is the irony: in youth skin and flesh is still usually firm, but one is unsure of its attraction and thus tries to hide it. In old age one has lived enough not to care about the bodies changes, even when everything droops and gravity is proven true. 

So there I am, cloaked like Gandalf in my grey towel, shuffling stealthily to the showers, where to my surpise I only see the one room. Thank the higher powers I was the only one there, so I quickly got clean and enrobed myself in the towel again. 

When I returned to the main room, I witnessed a most positive moment : 

an older white lady, presumably in her seventies, hunched over, with short dark grey hair and a face like a boxer approached a couple of black ladies, getting dressed to go back to work. She was walking towards them in her humongous white bloomers, with sagging flesh oozing out of them . 

She then asked one of the two ladies to put cream on her back. A simple thing. The lady obliged kindly and smeared the cream all over, even massaging it in. I, with my judgement, would have been disgusted by this task, this idea of rubbing old skin and muscles to weak to hold the old lady up straight. I would have done it out of courtesy, but would have resented her for asking me to do such a task. And I would have slapped the stuff on in seconds, trying to minimise the amount of contact my hands would have with her back.    

Then I realized my arrogance and admired both women greatly : the one for embracing her body and the other for not caring what that body looked like, for being willing to perform a small task in order to provide some happiness to a stranger. They both taught me that humanity has different forms and that a mindset corrupted by Cosmopolitan and Sports Illustrated ideals of what one should look like needs to change quickly. 

So I dropped my towel.  



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