Much of the population where I grew up — the western Upper Peninsula of Michigan — is of Finnish descent and enjoy the traditional Finnish sauna. Even those who are not of Finns have taken up the relaxing ritual of sitting in a 180 degree room then plunging into frigid Lake Superior. I’m 50% Finn, all from my father’s side of the family. Although he’s 100% Finn and a wood worker, my father has never been a fan of the sauna. As an avid sauna fanatic, I’ve often lamented this fact as I’m sure my dad could build an amazing sauna if he wanted to. Alas, each time I go home, I must rely on friends to get my much needed hot steam and jump in the lake.
On my most recent visit to the homeland, I’m in luck. My friend Katie, who lives in Chicago, is in town with her husband Matt and their infant son. Katie’s parents own a lake house on a secluded Lake Superior beach that has a great sauna. By the time we get in the sauna its temperature is nearly 200 degrees. Knowing I won’t have many chances to sauna on this trip or my next, I am determined to take full advantage of the heat and to make myself jump into the lake. The thought of the frigid water can be a bit much at times, but I never regret taking the plunge and how great I feel after getting out of the water. It’s nothing short of amazing and spiritual.
I manage to jump in twice that night and it’s well worth the shock to my system. The water is so cold that once I jumped in, I jumped right back out. However, the air temperature is warm enough to linger at the water’s edge. As the waves softly lap against the shore and my body reaches total relaxation, I look around and take in the incredible beauty of my surroundings. The empty beach is illuminated in the soft light from the half-moon that reflects on the calm waters. Stars fill the sky. My wet, naked body is bathed in this light and I feel nothing short of beautiful, both inside and out. I am alive! I am a post-sauna goddess!
Fast-forward five days. After making the drive back to Minneapolis with my near four-year-old son, we get back into our morning routine of going to the YWCA. He gets to play with other kids in the Kid Zone while I fit in a work out. The Y is a lot quieter in the summer, as many members take advantage of outdoor exercise or leave town on vacations. It just so happens that I’m the only one taking a shower that morning as a group of about 15 five-year-old girls from a summer program make their way into the locker room to line-up and use the bathroom.
My favorite shower — one with excellent water pressure — is front and center as you enter the area of the locker room near the bathroom. As the group of young girls walk toward the bathroom area and get closer to the showers, their eyes take in my naked body, bathed in ever so unflattering fluorescent light. Never in my life have I felt like such a freak of nature, a Frankenstein monster. The looks on these girls’ faces are that of abject horror. And they keep coming, these girls keep rounding the corner to take in the scene. Their eyes go wide as they cover their mouths and try to regain their composure. The adult that accompanies them tries to keep them in order and line them up to wait their turn to use the bathroom. She politely tries her best to ignore their reaction to my exposed body.
In the meantime I’m not quite sure what to do. Part of me feels the need to cover myself as soon as possible. Another part of me feels like laughing my naked butt off as the whole experience seems so absurd. The looks on their faces are so honest, pure and in many ways enduring. It’s the kind of honest reaction that I find myself looking for in people when I’m working as a photographer. On some level, I feel a bit charmed that my old, naked flabby body could elicit such a response. On another level, I find myself wishing I wasn’t the only one showering, that another, older, flabbier woman could be with me to share in whatever sense of shame I’m suppose to be feeling. I will admit it never felt quite so good to get my clothes on after a shower.
At 39 years-old, I feel pretty damn comfortable in my skin and with who I am. Sure, I wouldn’t mind being 40 pounds lighter and I should make a more concerted effort to eat healthier and exercise more consistently. Yet, one of the most beautiful things about growing older is becoming more comfortable and accepting of who you are — both physically and mentally. I like myself, I really do. If I wasn’t me, I would be pretty happy to spend time with me . . . if that makes any sense. As I near the milestone birthday of 40, the Big 4 - 0, I say bring it on. Sure, I could be a much better mother, wife, friend, daughter, sister, photographer, small business owner, book club member, liberal, cat owner, etc., but I’m not going to lose sleep worrying about my shortcomings. I accept all my shortcomings and realize that life is too short to obsess over imperfections . . . even if they give five-year-old girls nightmares. Sure, I’d like to live my life bathed in the perfect, soft light of the moon post-sauna on the shores of Lake Superior — a beautiful goddess version of myself. But let’s face it, if that was the norm, I wouldn’t appreciate it nearly as much as I do now while living my life as a naked monster, bathed in fluorescent light, scaring children.
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