I have been scanning photos of my teens and twenties and am
amazed at how svelte and frankly gorgeous I looked. Why didn’t I ever think
that at the time?
I’ve always thought myself to be just a little too fat, my
legs stubby like piano legs, my stomach poochy as if a baguette lay within –
and so on and so on. I’ve rarely been comfortable in my body. I have never
thought myself “the right shape.” If only my ankles were slimmer. If only my
knees were less padded, more knobby . . .
In my twenties and thirties, I don’t remember being
complimented by my husband. I don’t recall comments like “you look beautiful in
that dress” or “you look sexy tonight.” He may in fact have complimented me,
but it didn’t happen often enough to make a lasting impression.
It didn’t make an impression because when it comes down to
it, what was lacking all those years was my own appreciation. I could never
tell myself: “you are perfect, just as you are.”
And now, in my sixties, I am thirty pounds heavier. The
blemishes, wrinkles, flab, and cellulite have taken up permanent residence.
I grieve for what I squandered! I didn’t appreciate the
beauty of youth, the sheer joy of being comfortable and relishing a lovely body
– not perfect by societal standards – but lovely nonetheless.
Am I still playing the same self-deprecating game? Am I
looking at all the flaws and not appreciating that I still have a pleasant
silhouette that is strong and limber, eyes that sparkle, and a smile that lifts
my face and hides the jowls?
When will I be in sync and come to rest in the beauty of who
I am at this moment?
