My therapist is fond of talking about meat suits. My meat suit, her meat suit, everyone on this planet’s meat suit and what are souls are here to learn once we put one on. It does make death sound less scary doesn't it?— taking off the meat suit? Pleasant even. A relief.
In the meantime, here we are in our fallible, mystifying meat suits. Pain, pleasure, birth, torment, ecstasy, death. Our bodies are so susceptible to Every. Single. Thing. we encounter on this crazy earth.
Apparently our souls are not. Apparently our souls are ever expanding and immutable. My meat suit has gained a lot of meat this year. It's got achy hips, a tight neck, knots in its back and a very turbulent endocrine system. I was telling my therapist how scary it is to begin to let go of my looks, to begin to lose the control that beauty wields.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because beauty is currency,” I said. “Every woman on this planet knows that.”
“Oh, that’s just your ego,” she said. “And you have to let it go for any soul work to get done!”
“But I don't want to!” I said, and she roared with laughter. “You should have a funeral,” she said. “You should wear a black arm band for the death of your ego!” She seemed to find it a lot funnier than me.
When I went to my chiropractor that afternoon for a massage, I had the very disturbing realization that my new massage therapist was a very handsome man. Oh dammit shit, I thought. The death of the ego, the death of the ego, I repeated as he pulled the sheet from around my shoulders and tucked it into the top of my granny panties. Soul work, soul work, soul work, I prayed as he began working out the kinks between the fat rolls and love handles in my back. Meat suit meat suit meat suit, I thought as he dug his thumbs in deep and worked out the knots wound between muscle and tendon and bone. It was a painful death and a glorious massage.