I’m missing something, a part of me that I am pretty sure I have out grown. Like those jeans I loved a few years ago, before we had Maxwell. These jeans hang in the back of my closet taunting my newer, less terrific jeans with their perfect blend of I have lots of life left in me, and I have been worn so many times the fabric is soft, and the seams groove right into that younger, pre-3rd baby self I will never be again.
I’m cool with not being that pre # 3 girl. I really am. If I were being honest, it all went down hill after baby # 2, and that was over ten years ago.
I will admit what I lack now in shape, I make up for ten fold in style. I am much better at that now. I am not afraid of patterns, fabrics, colors, or lip gloss! I generally favor a nude gloss with just a slight hint of shade, making what I will call supple lips look simple, and elegant. As if a lip can do that. I will say that mine do, and it all sounds good, maybe also convincing. But I’m full of crap! I hate that my bottom lip almost swallows the top, that the corners of my mouth almost blend into my face, and when I smile my top lip spreads too thin. And that’s just my lips- forget the teeth I should have listened to my damn mother! I could have perfect teeth. I crunch my ice, killing my enamel, I wish I had an electric white smile.
I do have nice cheek bones, they’re high, well defined, giving my apple shaped face a little form. I am thankful for the artistry of properly applied blush, and contour here giving my apple shaped face, depth, clean looking lines that complete an overall pleasing face.
But my cheeks kills me. They’re too full, like a squirrel storing nuts. And it leads in to that extra skin hanging there under my chin, just begging to be chopped off.
As a result I can only be photographed from an angle 160 degrees in the air, and then only with a devil-may-care expression as I look up, craning my neck in an effort to delude myself into buying- “this is me, this is what I really look like”. It’s not. Trust me, you want to know what I look like?! Come over around 7 am on a Saturday, just don’t ask me to pay your therapy bill when you caught a nasty bout of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from the very sight of me, as you run in horror in the opposite direction. Kidding. Of course I am not that bad. None of us are, really.
Women are so terribly hard on themselves, we do so many strange things to be or stay or to feel beautiful. I have tried so many things, and will continue to spend my hard earned time, and money on the frivolity of womanhood.
As if this is what defines us. Sisterhood of the traveling semi-permanent eye lashes, unite!
I embrace the stretch marks on my stomach, I embrace the signs of age on my face. My perfect, imperfect smile. And I embrace all of you too.
And besides, I still have a terrific complexion. They cant take away from me. *wicked grin*