I squeeze my body in between the dilapidated structure that collects rainwater off the roof and a 50-gallon barrel of yesterday’s laundry water.
“Can you aim the camera to avoid this clutter,” I ask Emily, the young woman I’ve hired to film me, “and just get me and the laundry water in frame?”
I am nervous — the most insecure I’ve felt since I started posting on TikTok three weeks ago. In the first few videos, I wore that little black club dress with the flattering neckline. But today I’m in an old trapeze costume: a one-shoulder get-up, gold and sparkly. Fifteen years ago, I cut 3 inches off the skirt so it wouldn’t wrap around the bar during a show. My thighs were firmer then, not crinkled or splotchy.
“I’m afraid my legs look flabby,” I say as I stare at Emily’s iPhone camera right inside intimacy range. Emily is from the generation of body positivity. I’m from the Twiggy generation.
“You look amazing,” she says, sounding sincere.
I tell myself to trust her, that I’ve been self-critical for too long. I judge my waistline and beat myself up if I gain 2 pounds. It’s exhausting.
I know my peers dismiss social media as a waste of time and a threat to mental health, and that TikTok receives the brunt of the criticism because it’s new and we’re supposed to be afraid of it. But to me, it’s a beacon of freedom — young, fun, a place for dancing.
I’ve been bitter lately, sick of faking Little Miss Agreeable for my parents and former bosses, for randos I don’t even know. Sick of trying and failing to contort myself into a soft-spoken, nice lady that I imagine everyone will love.
I am also terrified of that gold sparkly minidress. It is crazy short, it doesn’t hide my tummy, and my right tit wants to pop out. Let it, I tell myself. I don’t care if someone thinks I’m old and ugly. I must believe in myself even if no one else will.
“Welcome to random bleep in my bleep bleep garden,” I begin. I introduce my system for collecting laundry water and pull Emily over to the bucket. It’s slimy and gross. We laugh.
I talk about drought-tolerant landscaping and keeping microfibers out of the waterways. I sass the camera. I’m sarcastic. I’m myself.
Emily sends the footage the next day.
“I love it except my legs,” I text, adding a scream emoji. “There’s one shot especially where my ass hangs out.” I’m so embarrassed. “Can you crop the clips?”
I squint into the phone, knowing that most people are too wrapped up with their own lives to bother with my imperfections. Still, I ask Emily to hide my legs behind the captions.
She posts the video the next day. It’s one week before my 59th birthday.
“It’s gone insane. Check the numbers,” I text Emily minutes after it goes live.
It’s hard to see the video or the numbers because a flood of comment banners move across the screen. Thousands of people click the “like” button.
“I would kill to have you as my mother,” one person comments. Another writes, “you’re an icon.” They ask questions about soil composition and washing soap. It’s exhilarating. I wonder if the video will surpass 100,000 views.
I’m overloaded with endorphins. I can’t stop checking my phone or get up from the sofa. The video speeds past 200,000 views. It will cross half a million very soon.
I feel dizzy — the scrolling, the comments, the likes. Too many people to count tell me I’m beautiful, I’m funny, I’m the best thing they’ve seen on TikTok. People love my dress. They call me Wilma from “The Flintstones” and Jane from “Tarzan” and Chelsea Handler and a better-looking version of Carole Baskin.
I force myself to drink water and feed…
This article was originally published by a www.huffpost.com . Read the Original article here. .