|I stuck the landing!|
Here's why: because I like who I am. Because now I know I'm smart. Because I am kind. Because I'm interested in other people. Have I told you lately what spectacular taste I have in people? I do. Picking awesome friends may not be a marketable skill, but it is an easy way to love and enjoy the people around you.
And also, I think, I'm more attractive because I no longer spend so much time inside my head fretting about whether or not guys think I'm pretty or women find me interesting.
I'm plenty pretty, whatever that means. I'm even more interesting.
This is not to say that I don't spend an inordinate amount of time inside my head. Nor that I can walk into a cocktail party full of strangers and be all, "Hello strangers! Let's talk!"
No, I will still more likely be standing on the side clutching a drink and muttering something weird under my breath like "Anal sphincter."
The good news is, it makes me likely to get into conversations with people I find fascinating.
But back to my outside.
I have more wrinkles and less firm skin. My butt is dying to kiss the back of my knees and I have to admonish it daily. My abs are not bad, but they're not fantastic, which I've decided they used to be. Two babies and one C-section will do you no favors in that department. Nor will breastfeeding make your breasts more attractive.
The other day my mom said, "You do too have boobs!"
And I said, "Padded bra today."
"Well, they look nice on you."
For a few months buying boobs was my topic. I still might do it. I dunno. I used to like having those little cupcakes right up where they used to be. I'm never going to roll mine up like tin cans, but still. I might buy me some.
I saw a dear old friend recently and at some point he said, "OK, this is like the fourth time you've mentioned your boobs. WHAT is going on?"
So I told him my deal. But what I forgot to tell him was that it was my current fixation. If he'd seen me in a rabies month or a sinkhole month or a raccoon month, it would've been completely different.
The boobs have gotten stuck on the back burner, however. Figuratively, I mean. Because ouchie.
Betty asked what I want for my birthday, and I said, "Botox."
Mostly I'm just bugged by the deep furrows between my brows. I don't mind the rest of the wrinkles. But I've been thinking about Botox and being chicken about it for months. While my furrows get furrowier. But whatever.
I bet most of you don't even know that I have a giant scar on my forehead, do you? I got it when I was 25. It's faded a great deal since then. But I like scars. It's never made me feel bad about my appearance.
When I was 35 and met the Dementor, it was one of the first things he asked me about. People like that will always notice.
Anyway, 20 years later, after hitting the bottom of a pool in Peru with my forehead and being lucky I didn't break my neck, I still have the scar. I will tell you that story sometime.
The past year has been filled with intense reconnections, and with it, revisiting my past selves.
One of the things I found most striking was that even in the decades in which I didn't much like myself, other people did. It turns out I've always had spectacular taste in people. And somehow, even when I didn't think much of me, they thought I was spectacular right back.
A dear friend said, "We're all still our 14-year-old selves. Just grown up."
I believe that's true. We are who we are. And as we age, we only get more so.
You're wonderful and you are beautiful and you're loved. Maybe you don't feel it, but you are. Your friends know you are. At some point, you'll know they're right. I'm certain this is true.
Although really, what do I know? I just talked to Maude about birthday and life everything and I said, "I think it's all going to work out fine. But actually, who the fuck knows anything about anything anyway?"
And she said, "That should be a bumper sticker."
Big hugs and lots of love to all of you!