I’m in my late thirties now. Finally. And for that alone I have gratitude. And I love who I am. That being said…
This is a confession. An outside confession.
I’m comfortable in my own skin. Finally. Though I always strive to be more fit. Stronger. Faster. More flexible. I will always be on the path of physical achievement. But I’m finally totally comfortable with what I have to work with.
Finally.
This didn’t use to be true. Please understand that I’m about to list a lot of traits which I do not have. And I no longer seek to attain such traits or looks. And I’m proud of that. But other women, maybe you, do carry such traits. And if these traits are who you are at your core then that is fantastic. I hope you’re proud of your own body.
I’m only stating that these are not me, and so I’ve accepted that. I wish every girl and woman accepted themselves as well as others. Truly. I could fill my blog with the psychology behind why women and girls treat each other poorly and how so much of it is based on self-loathing and jealousy. But that’s not what this post is about.
So what did it for me? What made me feel less than? Ok. Here’s a rant:
Sitting across from a blonde haired beauty.
Anyone with a button nose.
Sparkly Irish eyes.
Blue or green.
Delicate lips.
Curly locks.
Pear shape.
Soft shoulders.
Darker skin.
Petite.
To name but a few. I would see women with these beautiful features and I couldn’t help but compare. My eyes are big and brown. My nose was so big in comparison to many others. I actually considered a nose job for a hot five minutes in college. And I’ve got a big freakin’ mouth. Big teeth. Big lips.
As a kid I use to fantasize that Steven Tyler (Aerosmith) was my real father so that he could take me away from it all. I thought about spending a couple of weeks each summer in LA with my “real dad”. Because he was tall and skinny and looked quite a bit like me actually. Looking that way wouldn’t be so bad if it was because HE was my father, right?
Like many lanky gals, I always wanted curves. Always. I wanted junk in my trunk. I wanted voluptuousness. My bony elbows and knobby knees weren’t sexy. Not to me. People obsess about the the skinny models on magazine covers.
But what’s so funny about society, is that I looked like that and I wanted so badly not to.
You just don’t hear a lot of men say things like:
- “I want a woman who’s so skinny she looks like she hasn’t eaten in a week”
- “I want a woman whose thighs are super thin and muscular and don’t touch each other”
- “I want a woman with a small chest and ass, AND I want her to be taller than me”
- “I want a woman with broad shoulders and big hands”
Now, again, let’s be clear. I know for a fact, now, that a lot of men do want these things. In fact, the love of my life makes it clear to me on a regular basis that he loves all of these things about me. My point is that this is not, historically, what we picture a WOMAN to be. And we don’t hear it described in these terms. At least it’s not what I heard. Not what my image was.
I always imagined big nurturing breasts. Soft shoulders. Curvy hips. Certainly a shorter height than my 6 foot self. That was a woman to me.
But now…now…NOW I know. Now I know that my size B boobies produced so much milk for my babies they couldn’t consume it all. My babies fall asleep feeling safe and loved on my bosom and on my bony shoulders. My long ass strong and skinny arms can wrap around both of my children. And then some.
And I can carry them both at the same time if need be. With a combined weight of just over a hundred pounds. When they play, running through mommy’s long skinny legs is normal. And I’m grateful that it’s possible.
I am not delicate.
I use to pray at night that I could be more delicate. Inside and out. Neither is possible. I’m certainly not demure. I’ll get into that in another post one day.
The take away here?
