I’m the first one to admit that I know my body is, shall we say, less than perfection. I’m 59. I’ve lost over 200 pounds. I have enough excess skin to build an extra person, if I had a mind to be Dr. Frankenstein. (That’s Fronkensteen, thanks.)

While I tend to believe in comfort first, and I’ll wear shorts and sleeveless shirts without caring much what others think, I draw the line at streaking. Uh… I mean, getting naked. Or nearly there, anyway. So I admit I was just a tiny bit surprised when my husband bought me a massage for my birthday.

I’ve had massages, before, but usually with massage therapists that I knew I would never see, again. This massage was scheduled with a friend of mine, though, who has been there and supported me through nearly all of the seven years I’ve been working on my physical and mental self. I am glad it was her, in particular; she’s skilled, and she also is aware of the issues excess skin can bring. She has other clients with similar issues. I understand why, now, they choose to go back to her.

All that aside, it was surreal to lay on a table in (nearly) in my birthday suit. (It was for my birthday, after all!) Even odder to receive a full body massage. Best of all, judgment-free. We all know that such professionals should be free of judgment; after all, few of us are perfect. But I know from experience that reality is often different than expectations. I was pleased that it met my expectations.

Years ago, hubby and I went to a local tourist town for historic hot baths; it was part of our 10th wedding anniversary package with a favorite hotel, but that bath experience was like no other. For one thing, while we were thankfully separated by gender, we all had to sit and wait until we were called, dressed in nothing but a sheet wrapped around us toga style. I wasn’t my heaviest at the time, but likely still over the 300 mark. And then? Totally naked, in a large ancient metal tub, surprised by a bath attendant with a loofah sponge, who simply grabbed each of my arms and legs and started to scrub.

Shocked? A bit mortified? You bet! The attendant simply went about her work, but I still felt as if I was being judged on some level. It might have only been in my own mind, but for me, that’s what matters most.

Today, I’m happy in my own skin, even if it doesn’t fit quite right. Even if it’s not quite normal. It’s mine, and I’m happy with where I am. I might even have to get another massage!